


The Denbrough Show

by Bibabybi



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: AU, M/M, Slow Burn, The Truman Show AU, This is gonna be angstier than the actual Truman Show I'm sorry, sorry - Freeform, very slow burn, violence tw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-13 00:21:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 66,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21485254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibabybi/pseuds/Bibabybi
Summary: “Your entire life is being fucking live streamed on Television, Bill!”“I - what - no,” Bill shakes his head, as if that will somehow clear things up. “I would’ve noticed.”The stranger shoots him a look that’s almost akin to pity.  It makes Bill’s stomach crawl.“I can prove it."---Bill Denbrough's life is far from perfect.  But he has everything he could have ever wanted.  Friends that love him, parents that smile just the right amount, a boyfriend that would do anything for him.  Nothing special.  And yet a stranger in a fucking fanny pack goes the extra mile and breaks into his home, just to tell him his far from perfect life is being viewed by a million different people.  It's only fair to say this raises a few questions.  Who can he trust to have his back?  Where is Beverly?  And, perhaps most important of all, what really happened to Georgie?Or: The Truman Show AU
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Richie Tozier - briefly, Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 169
Kudos: 258





	1. Chapter One

Bill doesn’t feel like he’s being watched.

Sure, Derry’s always been a little weird (not that he’s ever had anything to compare it to) and he wouldn’t say he feels particularly safe. But he’s never felt the need to glance over his shoulder in the dead of night, searching for a pair of eyes he’ll never see.

Or, perhaps, he’s just grown accustomed to it. Maybe it’s one of those things he’s grown so used to that it doesn’t even register anymore. Like Richie’s shitty vision. To anyone else, opening their eyes to find themselves in a blurry world would set off every warning bell in their head. But to Richie, that’s just how the world is. Blurry.

Maybe Bill’s world is blurry too.

Maybe he always feels like he’s being watched.

Nonetheless, it’s still a shock to wander into his own bathroom at  _ 3 in the fucking morning _ only to find someone already there. And not one of his parents, which would have been bad enough. No, this is someone he’s never seen before. Someone who’s got him pinned against the wall, hand pressed over his mouth, and is barely over 5 feet tall.

“Thank God you were the first person to walk into the bathroom,” the person says, as if he didn’t accost Bill in his own goddamn home. “This would have been  _ so _ awkward if your parents came in first.”

_ ‘And this isn’t?’ _ Bill wants to ask, but the stranger’s hand is still covering his mouth so he stays silent.

“I have to tell you something,” the stranger whispers. “It’s  _ important _ . But you have to stay quiet, okay?”

Bill nods, because what else is he supposed to do?

Slowly, the stranger peels his fingers away.

He looks apprehensive, and rightfully so, because not a moment later Bill’s opening his mouth to let out a shriek he’s sure would have woken all of Derry. But the stranger seems to sense this and all Bill gets out is a choked gasp as the stranger shoves his hand against his lips once more.

“ _ Quiet _ ,” the stranger hisses. “I swear to fucking God. Richie didn’t tell me you were impossible to work with.”

“Ruh-Richie?” Bill says, the words muffled and garbled against the stranger’s skin.

The stranger nods, more serious than any conversation pertaining Richie deserves.

“I know Richie,” he says. “And Stan, and Mike, and Ben.” He hesitates for a moment, voice somehow going even softer. “And Bev.”

Bill shoves his shoulders harshly and the stranger stumbles backwards. Bill is twistedly pleased with the way he nearly topples into the bathtub.

“ _ Bev _ ?” Bill says, keeping his voice low. But  _ only _ because he wants to know what this guy has to say. “How do yuh-you know Bev?”

The stranger nods. “We’re friends. We’re all-”

“Do you know wh-where she is?”

Another nod.

“Where?”

“I can’t-”

Bill lurches forward, grasping the collar of the stranger’s shirt between his fingers. “You can. Where the f-f-fuck is she?” The stranger struggles, but Bill only pulls him closer. “Are yuh-yuh-you trying to tuh-tell me you snuck into my fucking house to tell me you  _ nuh-know _ where Bev is but can’t actually fuh-fucking tell me where?”

“That’s not why I came here!” the stranger yelps. His voice sounds strangled and scratchy, like he’s warding off an incoming wave of panic. “I came here to tell you - I need to tell you -” he lets out a wheezing breath. “Can you put me down?”

“You  _ buh-buh-broke _ into my  _ house _ !” Bill hisses, jostling the stranger the littlest bit.

“Okay, okay!” The stranger shuffles, trying to find his footing. “I just - I have to tell you -  _ fuck _ -” he scrambles for a fanny pack secured around his waist - a fucking fanny pack - and, in a flash, Bill’s grabbing his wrist in a death like grip.

They struggle for a moment, and it’s only when the stranger’s wheezing becomes insufferably loud that Bill actually looks down. There’s no weapon, like he suspected. Instead, he’s gripping an inhaler between shaky fingers.

Bill drops his wrist, watching as the stranger shovels the inhaler between his lips and takes one large hit. Bill keeps a hand on his collar, but is sure to loosen his grip. He’s sure the stranger isn’t going to hurt him now, but that doesn’t mean he’s any less dangerous.

“I have to tell you,” the stranger continues, “none of this is real.”

Bill furrows his eyebrows. “Wh-Wh-What?”

“ _ This _ ,” the stranger gestures vaguely. “None of this.”

“My buh-buh-bathroom?”

“Yes! Well, no. Sort of!”

“It looks pretty real to me.”

“Your bathroom is real,” the stranger says. “I mean, at least physically. It’s not like this is all a figment of your imagination. That would be ridiculous. It’s just-” the stranger hesitates, lower lip wormed between his teeth. “Everything that happens is planned. Every little moment in your life. Your career, who you hang out with, who you - who you date. It’s all just people pulling the string so the rest of the world can watch your entire world play out on their fucking flatscreen TV’s.”

Bill feels the material of the strangers shirt slip from between his fingers. “ _ What _ ?”

The stranger stumbles away from him, hurriedly straightening his shirt. “Your entire life is being fucking live streamed on Televison, Bill!”

“I - what - no,” Bill shakes his head, as if that will somehow clear things up. “I would’ve noticed.”

The stranger shoots him a look that’s almost akin to pity. It makes Bill’s stomach crawl.

“I can prove it,” the stranger insists. “I know what they’re planning for this week.”

Bill folds his arms over his chest, doing his best to act like his life isn’t shattering around him. He nods, silently pushing the stranger to continue.

“Tomorrow Henry and his friends are gonna be looking for you,” the stranger says. He bounces on the balls of his feet and twists his fingers together in a manner that looks almost painful. As if he has any right to be nervous. “When they find you-”

“If,” Bill interjects.

The stranger fixes him with a hard stare. “ _ When _ they find you, they’ll tell you it’s because you didn’t let Victor copy off your english test last week. Richie will find you afterwards. He’ll take you home, patch you up. He’ll be an A plus boyfriend.” The stranger spits the word  _ boyfriend _ , as if it burns his tongue on the way out. “Tuesday Mike will invite you up to the farm. He feels bad about Monday-”

“Does he?” It’s not that Bill believes any of this. It’s not that Bill thinks any of it is real. He’s just curious. If, hypothetically, this were all real (which it’s not, of course it’s not), would his friends care?

“Yes. Once you’re on the farm, Mike will give you some great advice about fighting back or maybe it’s not fighting back, I dunno-”

“Those are the only tuh-two options!”

“Well I wasn’t really listening, okay? Anyway, Wednesday you’ll realize Richie isn’t in school. Ben will tell you it’s because he got in a fight with Henry. When you see him he’ll be covered in bruises,” The stranger gnaws nervously on his lower lip, “It probably won’t be makeup. Thursday Stan will take you birdwatching. He’ll tell you it’s because everything’s been so hectic recently, you deserve some quiet. You’ll see - fuck, what is it - you’ll see some rare bird. Some bird that’s not usually here. Stan will be ecstatic. Friday-” the stranger clears his throat awkwardly, a pink tint flooding his cheeks. “Friday Richie will try to convince you to sleep with him-”

“ _ What _ ?” Bill squeaks, and he’s sure his cheeks are just as red as the stranger’s. “I - I can’t - I don’t - Wuh-Wait, Friday? Friday’s the - th-th-that’s the - the fuh-fuh-fucking anniversarry - Juh-Georgie-”

“I know,” the stranger murmurs. “We know. Richie knows.”

“ _ Then why _ -”

“Director’s orders,” the stranger shrugs. “Can’t say no. Can’t risk getting kicked off the show.”

Bill hugs his arms tightly around himself. “I’m not gonna do it.”

“That’s fine by me.” The stranger glances towards the bathroom window. “I should get going.”

“Alright.”

“Don’t tell the others about this,” the stranger says. “At least not in the open. No one can know you know. Um - if you need time away from the cameras, the bathrooms are the only places without them.”

Bill nods, as if that makes sense.

“Alright,” murmurs the stranger. “Good luck, Bill.”

It’s only once he’s already clambered out the window that Bill realizes he forgot to find out where Beverly is.

-

By the time Bill wakes up the next morning, he’s convinced himself last night was just some terrible hallucination. Just a nightmare. Nothing to worry about.

He changes in the bathroom anyway.

At school, he does everything in his power to avoid Henry and his goons. He checks around every corner, he begs his friends to keep an eye out for them, he keeps Richie by his side as often as possible.

It’s still not enough.

Just when he’s starting to think he’s gotten off scot-free, the school building disappearing behind him, a figure steps directly into his pathway.

Bill steels his gaze. “Henry.”

“Hey there, Billy,” Henry sneers. “Going somewhere?”

“Home,” Bill says shortly.

“So soon? We haven’t even had a chance to say hello.”

Bill moves to duck around Henry, but the older boy is faster. He fastens his hand around Bill’s wrist in a vice-like grip and tugs hard enough to send Bill toppling to the ground. He lands with an involuntary  _ oof _ slipping past his lips, his head bouncing against the pavement.

He hisses softly as he pushes himself up onto his elbows.

“You’re a fucking brat, Denbrough,” Henry snarls.

Someone hauls him to his feet and Bill stumbles in an attempt to secure his footing. Not that it matters much, the hand clutching the back of his T-Shirt is holding him up just fine on its own.

“Guh-Get off me!” Bill spits. He twists and turns in his attacker’s hold, but it only makes the hand grip him tighter.

Patrick laughs, cold and hard, from behind him. “He thinks he has a say in what’s about to happen. That’s cute.”

Bill expects some snarky, half-baked response. He expects to have some time before Henry starts hitting him, maybe even enough time to escape.

But Henry responds to Patrick’s statement with a white-knuckled fist that sends Bill’s head rocketing backwards into Patrick’s chest.

“You think you’re above everyone, don’t you?” Henry snarls.

Bill just grunts in response. Waves of pain vibrate down to his skull.

“Think you’re better than everyone? Mister Perfect?”

“I nuh-nuh-never said that.”

Henry responds with a quick hit to Bill’s gut that has him doubled over in a second.

“ _ Fuck you _ !”

“A-Alright, alright,” Bill wheezes, putting his hands up in surrender. “I’m suh-sorry!”

Patrick drops him and he lands on his hands and knees in a way that he’s sure will leave bruises.

“Is this-” he stops to take a gasping breath. “Is this be-because of the tuh-test?” He chances a glance up at Henry. He regrets it as soon as they lock eyes, Henry’s full of murder and hatred, but Bill refuses to back down.

“He got a fucking 38 percent!” Henry hisses. “He’s fucking furious, you’re lucky he’s not here himself!”

“Well it’s nice to see you cuh-care so muh-muh-much-”

Bill yelps as Henry’s boot connects with his shoulder. He collapses face first onto the pavement, pin-pricks of blood scattering his face as the skin tears.

He can hear Henry and Patrick walking away, their laughter loud and boisterous. But he doesn’t feel any sense of relief.

All he can think is,  _ fuck _ .


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie squeezes his knee gently. “Are you sure you’re alright? You’re acting really weird.”
> 
> “Mhm,” Bill nods. “Just puh-puh-peachy.”
> 
> Maybe he wants Richie to keep pushing. Maybe he wants him to push until Bill snaps and screams that he knows. He knows he isn’t real, he knows none of this is real.
> 
> But Richie just smiles and continues to wipe the blood from his face.

Sure enough, Richie finds him barely a minute later.

Bill’s just starting the struggle of sitting up when a warm hand comes to rest against his shoulder. The one that’s not throbbing in a way that tells Bill it’s going to be bruised tomorrow - might even be bruised right now.

“Holy shit, what happened to you?” Richie says. He drops to his knees and takes Bill’s chin in one of his hands, turning his face so he’s forced to look at him. “Your nose looks busted.”

“I’m fuh-fine,” Bill says. Except he’s not. Because he kind of wants to throw up right now, and it has nothing to do with the beating he just received.

“This does  _ not _ look fine,” Richie says. “C’mon, let me take you home.”

“Don’t wanna go home,” Bill says before he can stop himself. If there really is a TV crew hidden in the bushes, he’s going to screw with their plans as much as he can.

Richie furrows his eyebrows. “Where else am I supposed to clean you up?”

“I can do it muh-myself,” Bill says, voice cold. He tries not to feel guilty about the shock that flashes in Richie’s eyes.

“Of course you can,” murmurs Richie. “But you don’t have to.”

And he looks so sincere that for a moment Bill almost believes him.

“I want to,” Bill says. He hopes he sounds confident, because he sure as hell doesn’t feel it.

“Alright,” Richie grumbles. “What’s got your panties in a bunch?”

“Fuck off, Ruh-Ruh-Rich.”

Bill pushes himself to his feet. He has to grit his teeth through the pain, but he does it. He’s able to stand all on his own.

Walking is a different story. He takes one step and suddenly the pavement is flying up to meet him.

Richie catches him last minute, arms wrapped tight around his waist and breath hot against his ear.

“C’mon, let me help.”

Bill considers this, though he refuses to maintain eye contact. Allowing Richie to go with him means playing directly into their hands. But, really, he doesn’t know how he would fix himself on his own. He’s starting to feel nauseous. Besides, Richie looks genuine.

Bill breathes out sharply through his nose and gives the tiniest nod.

He’s barely finished before Richie’s wrapping an arm securely around his waist and directing him down the road.

When they get to his home, Richie pulls him into the kitchen. Bill jumps onto the counter without a second thought, watching warily as Richie darts back and forth from there to the bathroom, dumping everything he needs next to Bill’s legs.

“Wuh-Wuh-Wouldn’t it be easier to just go to the buh-bathroom?” Bill asks.

He searches Richie’s face for any sort of giveaway. But he just grins lazily.

“There’s more space out here,” he says.

“There’s puh-plenty of space in the bathroom,” Bill pushes.

“The bathroom is very sexy-”

“It is  _ nuh-not _ !”

“That’s not what your mom said last night.”

“God, Richie,  _ shut up _ .”

“ _ Oh, Richard _ ,” Richie says in a high-pitched voice that Bill guesses is some terrible impression of his beloved mother. “ _ Won’t you meet me in the bathroom? I have a shower to take and I would ever so like your help washing my ass. _ ”

“Beep, beep,” Bill says with a roll of the eyes. It’s all so normal that for a second he forgets all about the stranger and his foretellings of the future.

But then Richie’s dabbing at the scratches on his chin and Bill’s snapped back into his horrifying reality.

“How’d you piss them off this time?” Richie asks.

“Guess,” Bill says. Because he’s an asshole.

Richie shrugs. “They’re assholes?”

Bill rolls his eyes and says, “I wuh-wouldn’t let Victor copy off my eh-eh-english test,” like it’s obvious.

Richie doesn’t take the bait. “That’s such bullshit.”

“I know,” grumbles Bill. “Who would think that’s a reasonable response?”

“An idiot,” Richie says. For just a second his eyes flit over Bill’s shoulder, staring at the wall behind him like it just called him every foul name under the sun. But his eyes are back on Bill so quickly that even with his current paranoia Bill’s almost positive he imagined it. “You don’t deserve that.”

Bill likes to think there’s more behind his words. He likes to believe the man staring back at him is more than just an actor. He likes to believe he’s real.

But the truth is Bill has no idea. He has no idea about anything anymore.

He mumbles out a, “Thanks,” anyway.

Richie squeezes his knee gently. “Are you sure you’re alright? You’re acting really weird.”

“Mhm,” Bill nods. “Just puh-puh-peachy.”

Maybe he wants Richie to keep pushing. Maybe he wants him to push until Bill snaps and screams that  _ he knows. He knows he isn’t real, he knows none of this is real. _

But Richie just smiles and continues to wipe the blood from his face.

-

Tuesday rolls around and Mike invites Bill up to the farm.

Bill goes without much resistance because, even if this is all fake, Mike’s always had a sort of calming effect and  _ fuck _ if Bill doesn’t need that right now.

He sits folded up inside a wheelbarrow, watching as Mike bounces around the barn. For awhile they’re silent. It’s not awkward, it’s never awkward, but it is heavy. Bill feels like he’s being smothered in the world’s largest blanket.

Finally, Mike says, “Richie told me about yesterday.”

“Hmm?” Bill says, too startled to think of a reasonable response.

“Yesterday,” Mike repeats. “With Bowers.”

“Oh,” murmurs Bill. “Right. It wasn’t that buh-bad. Not as bad as it could’ve been, anyway.”

“I know,” sighs Mike. “I just feel-”

“Bad?”

Mike cracks a smile, and it almost makes Bill forget he’s angry at him. “Yeah. I just - I should’ve been there.”

“I can take care of muh-myself.”

“I know. But you don’t have to.”

His smile is so blinding that Bill almost believes him. But then a spurt of pain flies up his nose and he remembers why he’s here. So thousands of people can watch him - what - feel sorry for himself?

“Th-Th-Thanks,” he says, though he refuses to meet Mike’s eyes.

“Are you okay?” Mike asks. “I know what happened was shitty-”

“I’m fuh-fine.”

Mike pauses, clearly taken aback by Bill’s short tone.

“Okay,” he says, voice soft. “But you know it’s okay if you’re not, right?”

Bill just nods, because there isn’t a doubt in his mind that if he tried to form even the simplest of words, he would break.

It’s not like he  _ wants _ to cry over these idiots. They lied to him. He doesn’t even know if they’re using their real names.

But he can’t stop the prickle of heat that’s slowly rising against the back of his eyes.

They’re supposed to be his  _ friends _ .

“Hey,” murmurs Mike, because apparently Bill isn’t as good at hiding his emotions as he thought. He gently swipes his thumbs under Bill’s eyes, catching the stray tears Bill hadn’t even realized escaped. “You’re the strongest guy I know. Don’t let a few douchebags let you forget that.”

Bill lets out a shaky breath. “Do you ruh-really mean that?”

‘ _ Do you mean it?’ _ He silently asks. ‘ _ Do you mean any of it?’ _

“Of course,” Mike says, nodding firmly.

“I duh-duh-didn’t do anything,” Bill grumbles. “They’re ruining my luh-life and I juh-juh-juh -  _ fuck- _ I let them!”

He eyes Mike’s reaction carefully.

_ ‘Please, please understand what I’m saying _ .  _ Please help me.’ _

“You don’t have to fight back, Bill. No one’s going to think any less of you,” Mike says and Bill’s heart sinks. Either he doesn’t understand or he really is just an actor with a script. “But you shouldn’t be afraid to fight back. I don’t doubt you would give them a run for their money.”

Bill chuckles mirthlessly.

“Th-Thanks,” he mumbles.

“Sitting back makes for an easier life. A simpler life,” Mike continues. “There’s nothing wrong with that. But some things are worth fighting for.”

Bill nods. He opens his mouth to respond, ready to shut the conversation down before it can get any more pathetic, but the words are stolen from him as Mike pulls him into a bone-crushing hug.

“No matter who the enemy is,” Mike whispers, breath tickling Bill’s ear.

It’s quiet enough that anyone else nearby wouldn’t have picked up on it. It’s meant for Bill, and Bill only.

But there isn’t a soul in sight. There’s no reason for Mike to worry about someone else overhearing.

Unless...

Bill’s heart speeds up, pounding furiously against his ribcage.

“Thank you,” he whispers. And for the first time all day, he means it.

-

On Wednesday Bill marches up to his lunch table and says, “Did Richie try to fight Bowers?” with such authority that he even catches the attention of the surrounding tables. He’s horrifically pleased to see the panic stricken look that crosses Ben’s face.

“How did you know?” Ben asks, voice quiet and cheeks tinged pink. He glances around the cafeteria and Bill suddenly feels guilty about drawing so much attention to them. He knows it makes Ben nervous.

‘ _ But does it?’ _ A voice in the back of his head asks. ‘ _ He is on live TV everyday.’ _

Bill forces that thought away as he lowers himself into the seat across from Ben.

“Luh-Luh-Lucky guess,” he shrugs. “I just fuh-figured that would be th-th-the most logical ruh-reason. He seemed pretty upset the other duh-day.”

Ben nods, seemingly pleased with this answer. “He’s just protective, you know how he is.”

“What’s this about?” asks a voice and Bill glances over just as Mike slides into the seat next to Ben.

“Richie,” Ben answers simply.

Stan, who has claimed the seat next to Bill, scoffs. “Richie’s not protective, he’s just an idiot.”

“He could be both,” Mike argues.

“Wh-Whatever the reason,” Bill says. “He’s stuh-stuh-stupid.”

“He’s not stupid!” Ben insists. “He just loves you.”

‘ _ Does he?’ _

“Wouldn’t you do the same for him?” Ben continues.

“Right,” mumbles Bill. “Of course.”

The worst part is, he probably would.

“We should go see him after school,” Mike says. “I’m sure he would appreciate it.”

“I wuh-wuh-would’ve appreciated him not s-s-st-sticking his nose where it doesn’t buh-belong,” huffs Bill.

Ben sighs heavily. “Bill-”

“ _ I know _ !” Bill snaps. “I know. He juh-just wanted to puh-pruh-protect me. I just-”

He stops himself, gnawing slowly on his lower lip. He just what? Why is he so mad at Richie? He’s angry at all of the losers, sure, but something about Richie is really fueling the fire.

Maybe it’s the way he so effortlessly dodges all of Bill’s hints.

Maybe it’s the fact that all of Richie’s “protective” acts are nothing more than a director’s choice.

Maybe it’s the fact that Richie’s willing to take Bill’s virginity on the anniversary of his brother’s death.

Maybe it’s the way Richie lies ever-so-easily through his teeth, telling him he loves him.

Maybe it’s all of it.

But how is he supposed to say that? So he just sighs and says, “Suh-Suh-Sorry. I’m just st-stressed.”

Stan smiles softly and reaches out to squeeze Bill’s shoulder. Just for a moment, Bill feels like he’s on fire.

“It’s alright,” Stan murmurs. “We get it.”

“Thanks,” Bill mumbles, his gaze dropping down to his shoes.

“Bill, are you-”

“_I’m fuh-fucking_ _fine_, _Ben_!”

Ben looks taken aback by the sudden outburst, which Bill can’t say he blames him for. Despite how much Bill wants to hate him, he still feels an enormous amount of shame at the widening of Ben’s eyes. It’s hard not to. He looks like he just watched Bill kick a kitten.

“Sorry,” mutters Bill. “I’m fine.”

If only that were true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is ending up being more of a slow burn than I originally planned but that's alright, that's alright. I hope you're all enjoying the chapters so far (and tell me in the comments if they're too short, I can try to make them a little longer), please comment and all that good stuff! I know the dates and ages of when this takes place is a little fuzzy right now and I'm sorry I didn't explain it in the first chapter, but do not fear. All will make sense soon.
> 
> Chapter three should be up soon!
> 
> Tumblr:  
Fanfic/IT: @s-oulpunk  
Main: @im-a-rocketman


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie's laying across Bill’s entire bed, glasses askew and hair mused. All in all, not very threatening. But Bill still feels his heart drop to the bottom of his feet.
> 
> “How are you feeling?” Richie asks.
> 
> Bill shrugs noncommittally.
> 
> Richie frowns and reaches out for him. “C’mere.” Bill must hesitate for too long because a moment later Richie’s chuckling and saying, “I won’t bite. C’mon.”

Richie looks even worse than Bill had suspected.

His face is littered with bruises, complete with a black eye and busted lip. A part of Bill is almost pleased with the display. Serves him right. But a bigger part of him can’t help the desperate need to lurch forward and wrap Richie in the biggest hug he can muster.

He withholds this urge with all of his might.

“Jesus, Rich,” Stan says, his voice sounding strained. “Your fucking face.”

“I know, my fucking face,” Richie whines. “Now what face am I gonna fuck with?”

Stan rolls his eyes. “I can’t even be worried about you without - Whatever. Move over.”

He shoves Richie aside without so much of a second thought and the rest of his friends follow suit. Bill can feel Richie’s eyes following him but he keeps his gaze securely on the ground. He just has to get through this. Once he gets through this he can go home and hide alone in his bedroom for as long as he likes.

There’s an awkward pause where Bill suspects his friends are waiting for him to speak. But he doesn’t offer anything other than a quiet huff of air, and instead Ben’s the one to break first.

“Richie,” he says, “ _ Why _ ? You know better.”

Richie shrugs and Bill doesn’t miss the way he winces at the movement. “They deserved it.”

“Looks like you taught them one hell of a lesson,” Stan deadpans.

“Shut up.”

“It does look really bad, Rich,” Mike says. “Is there anything we can do to help?”

“ _ Awe _ , thank you, Nurse Mikey,” Richie smirks. “How very kind of you.” When Mike just rolls his eyes, Richie continues, “And I’m fine, really. My face has been like this for hours.”

Mike grimaces. “That doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“Have you at least put ice on it?” Stan asks.

Richie pulls a face. “Why would I need to put ice-”

“You’re so fucking stupid.” Stan doesn’t let him finish before he’s spinning him around and shoving him in the direction of the kitchen.

“So what happened?” Ben asks. “You just saw Bowers and jumped him?”

“Something like that,” says Richie, who’s now tenderly pressing an ice pack to his cheek. “I saw them laughing and something inside me just snapped. I was just so angry. Like they thought it was fucking funny.”

It happens so fast that Bill almost doesn’t catch it, but Stan and Mike share a  _ look _ .

Not the usual Richie look. Mike’s not rolling his eyes, and Stan’s not giving him that usual dead-eyed look he has when Richie says something stupid. No. They look almost  _ alarmed _ . Like Richie fucked up. Genuinely fucked up.

Bill feels his heart speed up and he takes the tiniest step forward. Currently he has no way of knowing what that look means, but  _ hell _ if he isn’t going to find out.

“They could’ve been laughing about anything, Richie,” Stan says. “It’s been two days already.”

Richie falters, as if he hadn’t realized what he had said until just then. “Right. I guess you’re right. I didn’t - I wasn’t - I just wasn’t thinking.”

“You’re never thinking,” murmurs Stan, though there’s no real bite behind the words.

Ben clears his throat awkwardly. “Anyone up for a movie?”

Stan and Mike nod hurriedly and in a flash they’re gone. Bill can’t help the way his stomach drops as he listens to them stumble across the house. They’ve clearly already figured it out, and Bill still understands  _ nothing _ .

Bill doesn’t realize how long he’s been standing there until Richie says, “You alright there? You look like you’re gonna be sick.” He jerks his head towards the sink. “Do it over there if you are.”

Bill shakes his head and steps closer to Richie, crowding him against the kitchen counter. He’s not letting this moment get away.

He takes the ice pack from Richie, pressing it against his cheek himself.

“Maybe it’s b-because your face looks like sh-sh-shit,” Bill supplies.

Richie cracks a grin. “You’ve got me there.” When Bill doesn’t smile back he continues, softer now, “You’ve been quiet.”

Bill hesitates, lip held gently between his teeth.

“Is that really what ha-happened?” he finally says.

“Yeah,” Richie says. He chuckles lowly. “Kind of dumb, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” Bill mutters.

Richie hisses as Bill presses the ice pack a little too harshly to his face.

_ “It probably won’t be makeup,” _ the stranger had said.

“Suh-Suh-Sorry,” whispers Bill, and he’s almost surprised to find he means it.

Bill lets out a soft sigh as he gently brushes his fingertips across the vibrant purple against Richie’s skin.

“You sh-sh-shouldn’t have duh-done that, Rich,” Bill says. “You luh-luh-look like someone tuh-tried to kill you.”

“What, you don’t think it’s sexy?” Richie grins. Bill just rolls his eyes.

“Oh yeah, suh-so sexy.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Richie says, and Bill can’t help but laugh.

For a moment the words, “I’m sorry,” linger on Bill’s lips.

But then the moment passes, and he’s back to pressing an ice pack to a stranger’s face.

-

Thursday, Stan approaches Bill at his locker.

“I was thinking about going birdwatching after school,” he says. Bill knows this, but he lets him finish anyway. “Everything’s just been...too much lately. I figured some peace and quiet could be good.”

Bill nods absentmindedly.

“Do you want to come?” Stan asks. “You’ve seemed stressed out.”

Bill’s plan had been to say no. Just to feel like he has  _ some sort _ of control over his apparently fucked up life. He knows Stan won’t push, he never does.

But the word dies on Bill’s tongue as soon as he makes the mistake of looking at Stan.

He doesn’t look any different than usual. He’s smiling softly, eyes twinkling, and curls falling in a perfect crown around his head. Bill, not for the first time, wants to reach out and pull one, just to see it bounce back into place. He doesn’t.

Stan, as always, looks like a total sweetheart.

It makes Bill’s heart melt just enough that he doesn’t think twice before agreeing.

“Yeah,” he finds himself saying. “Yeah, of course.”

Stan grins and for a moment it’s all worth it.

Then he walks away. With a grimace, Bill realizes he’s, once again, played directly into their hands.

But it’s hard to regret his actions when he’s sitting next to Stan, perched precariously on a tree branch just far enough away from the ground to make him nervous. And, alright, maybe a description like that doesn’t sound too appealing. But Stan has the biggest grin on his face and the binoculars in his hand are so big they make it look like he’s about to tip over. It’s a sight that makes Bill feel warm all over.

Stan’s never been able to calm him quite like Mike has, but there’s no denying that Stan can make his mood a thousand times better with just a simple smile.

“ _ Look _ !” Stan gasps. His voice is barely a whisper but the sudden noise still nearly makes Bill topple out of the tree. Stan catches him last minute, wrapping one arm around BIll’s waist and using his free hand to grasp at Bill’s forearm. “ _ Whoa _ ! You okay?”

Bill nods. “Yuh-Yeah.”

Stan shoots him a smile before tentatively removing his fingers from around Bill’s arm. His other arm stays secured around his waist, fingers barely brushing Bill’s side.

“Look,” Stan says again, pointing at the tree across from them. A small bird with a hooked beak is seated on a low branch, chirping happily. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

Bill hums in agreement. “What kind of buh-buh-bird is it?”

Stan hesitates for a moment, nose scrunching up and eyebrows furrowing. For a moment Bill’s brought back to the math test they studied for a few weeks back. Stan had made the same face trying to figure out a particularly hard problem.

“It’s scientific name is Toxostoma redivivum-”

Bill can’t help but let out a loud bark of laughter, hardly noticing when the bird - Toxins in a red a whatever the fuck - chirps indigntantly and flutters away.

“ _ What _ ?” Stan says, his lips settling into a deep frown.

“ _ Tuh-Tuh-Toxin wh-what _ ?”

“ _ Not _ Toxin!” Stan insists. “Toxostoma redivivum!”

This only makes Bill laugh harder, and he has to reach out and cling to Stan in the hopes that it will stop him from falling out of the tree.

“Wh-Wh-What the fuh-fuck, Stan?” Bill cackles. “Juh-juh-just say it’s  _ normal _ nuh-name!”

Stan rolls his eyes. “I thought you’d be impressed.”

“How do yuh-you even know how to suh-say that?”

“I’ve practiced!” Stan retorts. “I like to know the scientific names of things.”

“Okay,” Bill says, biting his lip to stop himself from laughing more. “Then wh-wh-what’s it’s un-scientific name?”

Stan hesitates again, but this time he doesn’t scrunch his nose or furrowing his eyebrows. His just gnaws quietly on his fingernails and stares at the empty branch across from them.

“California Thrasher,” he says finally. “That’s what it’s commonly known as. It’s not native to Maine. It’s usually found in-”

“California.”

Stan lets out a short laugh. “Yeah.”

“Luh-Luh-Like near Huh-Hollywood?” Bill asks, his tongue suddenly feeling too big for his mouth.

Stan nods, though he still refuses to make eye contact. “Yeah, sometimes.”

“So, wh-wh-what’s it doing all the wuh-way out here?”

Stan finally turns to look at him. Bill can’t help but shrink back the littlest bit. He’s seen Stan angry. He’s seen him sad. He’s seen him at what he was sure was his lowest. But he’s never seen the look in his eyes at this moment.

“Maybe someone brought it here,” Stan says softly.

Bill desperately wants to know more. He’s getting somewhere, he can feel it. But then, as suddenly as it appeared, the look in Stan’s eyes disappears.

“How are you feeling about tomorrow?” Stan asks.

Bill stares at Stan with an open jaw. He can hardly believe it. Maybe Stan really does want to help. Because he has to be asking about Richie, right?

But then he says, “Three years is a long time,” and Bill’s heart sinks right down to his toes.

Right. Georgie.

Fuck, he’s the worst brother. It’s the anniversary of Georgie’s  _ death _ and he’s too wrapped up in his own problems to remember.

“Yeah,” Bill mumbles. “It - Um - It suh-sucks. I muh-muh-miss him.”

“I’m sure he misses you too,” Stan says. Then his eyes widen almost comically and he quickly backtracks, “You know, wherever he is now. Like - Like the afterlife. Or whatever.”

“Stan…”

“Hmm?”

Bill feels like he’s been sucker punched.

_ He misses you too. _

_ None of this is real. _

“Wh-What does th-that muh-muh-mean?”

“Nothing,” murmurs Stan, eyes locked on his feet. “I just - slip of the tongue. That’s all.”

“ _ Stanley _ . If - If yuh-you know suh-suh-something-”

Stan shakes his head minutely.

“I can’t,” he whispers. It’s so soft that Bill’s not sure he was supposed to hear. Then, louder, “I don’t.”

Bill huffs, “Fine.”

He can feel Stan’s eyes on him as he leaps out of the tree, legs wobbling as he lands.

“I’m guh-guh-going home,” he says.

“Bill-”

“I’ll see you tuh-tomorrow.”

“Bill,  _ I’m sorry _ !”

The sound of feet hitting the ground meets Bill’s ears. For a second he considers running, just so he doesn’t have to deal with the possibility of pathetically getting his hopes up again. But Stan’s by his side again before he can blink, wringing his hands and shuffling his feet.

“I’ll walk you home.”

“No-”

“I didn’t mean - I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I just-”

“ _ I know. _ ”

Stan blinks slowly, and Bill thinks maybe he understands. But if he does, he doesn’t say anything.

“I am sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t want to upset you. I wasn’t thinking.”

Bill sighs heavily. “It’s fuh-fuh-fine, Stan. I just wuh-want to go huh-huh-home.

“Okay,” Stan says, voice small, and doesn’t speak the rest of the time.

-

Every year on the anniversary of Georgie’s disappearance, the losers gather at Bill’s house. The day is a whirlwind of emotions, but through it all, Bill always has his friends by his side.

This year is no different.

The losers walk him home from school, chatting all the while. For a few hours they try to distract him. Movies, gossip, snacks.

For awhile it works. But Bill can never keep the tears at bay for very long.

His friends never seem to mind, though, wrapping him in hugs as he babbles incoherently.

By the time they leave, he feels immensely better. At least, every previous year he’s felt better.

This year he feels a little sick.

His friends were as kind as ever, but mixed with what Stan had said yesterday and the stress of this past week, it’s hard to relax. Not to mention, Richie’s still lounging in his bedroom long after the others have gone home.

He’s laying across Bill’s entire bed, glasses askew and hair mused. All in all, not very threatening. But Bill still feels his heart drop to the bottom of his feet.

“How are you feeling?” Richie asks.

Bill shrugs noncommittally.

Richie frowns and reaches out for him. “C’mere.” Bill must hesitate for too long because a moment later Richie’s chuckling and saying, “I won’t bite. C’mon.”

His feet suddenly feel full of led. Each step takes more energy than Bill’s had to use all week, but he’s still standing at the foot of the bed much sooner than he would’ve liked.

“Luh-Luh-Look, Rich-” Bill cuts himself off with a yelp as Richie wraps his arms around his waist and tugs him onto the bed.

“Cuddle with me,” Richie pouts.

“ _ Nuh-Nuh-No _ !”

Richie releases him, scrambling backwards to fix him with a concerned stare. “No? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“I - I’m - Ruh-Ruh-Ruh-Rich-”

Richie nods furiously.

“Yeah?” he says, reaching out to lace their fingers together. “What is it?”

“I - I duh-duh-don’t wuh-wuh-wuh -  _ Fuck _ ! I cuh-cuh-can’t-”

“That’s okay,” Richie quickly says. “That’s okay. Just take your time, yeah?”

Bill sniffles. “Yuh-Yeah. I juh-juh-just - I just wuh-wanna go to suh-suh-sleep.”

“Okay,” murmurs Richie. “That’s okay. We can do that.”

He flops down on the bed, staring up at Bill expectantly.

“C’mon,” he says softly. “I promise I won’t grab you again.”

Bill tentatively lays down next to him. He’s so close to Richie he can count every freckle on his face, but he still refuses to reach out and touch him. Richie seems to understand, holding his arms tightly against his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

“Yuh-You should go,” Bill says, because his brain is short circuiting and making it impossible to think of a more polite way to say this. Richie’s face crumples and for a moment Bill has the most overwhelming urge to reach out and hold him. But one moment of sadness doesn’t fix the lie that is Bill’s entire life, so he continues, “I juh-just wanna be alone ruh-right now.”

“Yeah, alright,” Richie says, scrambling out of the bed. “Um - Call if you need anything, okay? I love you.”

Bill smiles, awkward and not at all sincere. “Yeah. Love you too.”

Richie closes the door behind him and Bill’s alone again. Or, as alone as he can be.

He was sure sleep would be easier without Richie, without the fear that he would pounce at any moment. But Bill lays awake for hours, staring at the ceiling. A million thoughts are running through his brain.

Richie is the biggest asshole he’s ever known. The last thing he said to him was a bold-faced lie. And yet, he had left without a fight.

Bill has been worried sick about tonight all week, and all he had to say was  _ no _ .

_ “Director’s orders,” _ the stranger had said.  _ “Can’t say no. Can’t risk getting kicked off the show.” _

But Richie had said no.

He had gone against this mysterious director’s orders.

Okay, Richie is an asshole. But maybe he’s not the  _ biggest _ asshole.

He has some redeeming qualities, enough that Bill can’t risk him getting kicked off the show. He can’t be the guy whose exes all magically disappear.

So, with a heavy sigh, he forces himself out of bed and pulls on the first pair of shoes he can find. Maybe a romantic apology and night of cuddling will be enough for him to stay.

Richie’s house is completely dark, no surprise. What is a surprise is when Bill peers inside Richie’s bedroom window and finds his room, while messy and well lived in, completely empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yooo this chapter's longer than the others, I'm very happy about that. I think I'm going to try to keep them around this length from now on but they might vary a little bit. Also I keep changing my mind about whether or not I like this chapter, but I wanted to get it up fast so I'm posting it before I can back out.
> 
> Anyway please leave comments and kudos and all that good stuff, they fill my soul with warmth. I appreciate you all for reading and hopefully chapter 4 will be up soon!


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite Bill’s efforts, Stan’s words are harsh. “Look, I don’t know what you think happened, but whatever it is, it’s wrong. Okay? I just - I just fucking - I dunno - I fell, okay? I fell on my face on the way over here because - because I wanted to talk to Richie. That’s all there is to it, alright? There’s nothing-”
> 
> “I don’t th-th-think anything,” Bill insists. “I know what’s going on.”
> 
> Stan whips around fast as lightning, pointing an accusatory finger in Bill’s face. “You don’t know shit.”

The reason Bill finds Richie’s house empty, is because Richie does not live there. Still a few months short of eighteen, he has to live with some sort of parental guardian, and while Robert Gray has tried many times to convince Richie’s mother to live on set, she has refused.

_ “He needs time outside of that horrendous set,” _ she said on multiple occasions.  _ “He’s already there all day.” _

So, Richie, thankfully, is allowed to come home and have dinner with his actual family once a day. Even if that dinner is normally closer to a midnight snack.

But he’s all too overly aware of the days counting down until his eighteenth. As soon as that clock strikes midnight he’ll be dragging his suitcase into that god awful stage home and not leaving for who knows how long. Of course, he could refuse. But then it would be goodbye Bill and hello Hollywood blacklist. Which is absolutely  _ not _ where he wants to be.

But this week has been stressful enough without worrying about that.

So Richie shoves that thought to the back of his mind and focuses instead on getting Eddie’s bedroom window open.

“It got fucking stuck again,” he grumbles when he finally finds himself inside.

“Sorry,” Eddie says, voice heavy with sleep. “Maybe you should’ve pushed harder?”

“Or maybe you just could have not fallen asleep?” Richie bites back.

“It’s not my fault you got here at fucking one in the morning!”

“You’re lucky I’m here at all,” Richie insists. “Robert wanted me to stay the night.”

“ _ I know _ .”

Richie’s face drops. Suddenly his scuffed up shoes are the most fascinating thing in the world, his entire head dropping to better stare at them.

“Right,” he mumbles. “Sorry.”

Eddie peers at him under his massive pile of blankets. Almost his entire face is covered, only his eyes and  _ cute, cute, cute _ fluffy hair peeking out. Richie is surprised he isn’t suffocating under there.

“You didn’t do it,” Eddie finally says.

Richie shakes his head, still refusing to look up. “He was still upset. I didn’t want - I couldn’t do it.”

Finally he lifts his head. His eyes lock with Eddie’s, and his heart stutters to a stop in his chest. How does he explain what happened? He’s almost positive Eddie was watching the entire thing on TV, but he wasn’t there. He didn’t see the terror in Bill’s eyes.

“Something’s wrong, Eds,” Richie says, voice strangled. “It was like - It was like he was  _ scared _ of - of me.”

Eddie silently opens the blankets and Richie dives inside without a second thought. He wants desperately to move closer. He knows if he did, if he were to wrap his arms around Eddie and pull him closer, Eddie would accept him without any hesitance. But the guilt is still eating Richie from the inside out. So he keeps his hands to himself.

“Robert’s gonna be pissed,” Eddie says.

“I can take him down,” Richie says with a halfhearted grin. “Have you seen these guns? I’m basically shredded.”

“ _ Shut up _ , Richie,” Eddie huffs, his lips twisting into a frown. “That’s not funny. He’s already pissed at Stan-”

“At Stan?”

“ _ Yes _ , keep up! Stan texted the group chat and said Robert was mad, and to try not to piss him off any more.” Eddie snatches his phone off the nightstand and shoves it into Richie’s face. Just to further prove his point. “And what did you do? What did you fucking do? You pissed him off more!”

“Maybe he won’t be mad,” Richie answers weakly. “He has to know the response wouldn’t have been exactly good if I-”

“You think he cares?” Eddie sneers. “Any attention is good attention. You would get the blame, not him.”

Richie winces. He knows Eddie’s right, but it’s not something he wants to dwell on.

“What’s he mad at Stan about?” Richie asks instead.

“Maybe you would know if you looked at the group chat-”

“It’s supposed to be 19-fucking-92 on set, I can’t bring my fucking cell phone in there-”

“You suck.”

A grin cracks across Richie’s face. “Yeah, I know. You never waste an opportunity to tell me.”

“Mhm,” Eddie hums. “Because it’s true.”

“I know he’s gonna be mad,” Richie whispers. “I know I fucked up real bad.” Richie feels his insides twist as the words leave his mouth. He actually would like to think that, for once, he did the right thing. But Robert won’t see it that way. “But I just - I don’t want to think about it. I can deal with it in the morning.”

Eddie hesitates. If Richie knows him - and he does - then he’s spent the last three hours perfecting exactly what he wants to say - or, more accurately, scream - at Richie. He might as well have a 50 slide powerpoint presentation informing Richie just how badly he’s fucked up.

But then Eddie nods, and the conversation drops.

“What’s happening out here?” Richie asks.

He doesn’t mind his job. Other than the ongoing terror of Robert’s wrath and the shame of constant lying, it’s not half bad. He’s an actor on the number one television show in America, he has thousands of adoring fans, and he’s made friends he wouldn’t trade for the world. Still, spending all day on set is exhausting. And with the cell phone ban, he has little to no knowledge of what’s happening on the outside world until he gets home.

“Not much,” Eddie says. “I stayed here for most of the day. Mom was working on next week’s script and wanted my help. Not that she actually liked any of my ideas.”

Richie rolls his eyes. “Alright, I’ll prepare myself for a fucking soap opera.”

“Yeah, it’ll suck,” Eddie says. “But, on a brighter note, Bev’s gaining some traction. She has an interview set up on some talk show! It’s one of the smaller ones, but it’s still something!”

“That’s great, Eds,” Richie grins. And it is. Bev’s working hard and Richie’s proud of her, she might actually achieve something. But the thought still scares him. What would happen afterwards?

“She wants us all to come over that night,” Eddie says. “Do you think you can make it?”

It would be tough. If anyone saw them together, it would be all over the internet. It would be the scandal of the decade. Or of the week, Richie supposes. There are so many scandals nowadays. But, no matter how big the scandal, it could destroy his career and everything Bev’s worked for.

Still, he nods. “I think so.”

The grin Eddie gives him makes it all worth it. “Great! She’s gonna be really happy, Rich. She misses you.”

“I miss her too,” Richie says. “Not as much as Ben misses her, of course. I think he’s starting to go crazy.”

Eddie laughs mirthlessly. “I think I know he feels.”

And,  _ ouch _ , that makes Richie feel like shit. He’s sure Eddie doesn’t mean it to, in fact he  _ knows _ he doesn’t mean it to, but that doesn’t stop the guilt from pooling in his stomach.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “But you know I can’t - we can’t do anything. Not while I’m with Bill.”

“I know,” Eddie shrugs. “It’s not your fault.”

And Richie knows, but he doesn’t think he  _ knows _ .

Because, in reality, it all feels like his fault.

“I’m gonna go to sleep,” he says. It’s simpler than what he really wants to say. “Need to be well rested if Robert’s gonna kick my ass tomorrow.”

Eddie pulls a face. “Rich-”

“Goodnight, Eds.”

For a moment, Richie thinks Eddie’s going to ignore him. He’s almost positive Eddie will insist they stay up for just a few more minutes. Probably to talk about Richie’s horribly inappropriate humor. Maybe to talk about how sleeping in the same bed is slowly becoming a constant. But probably not.

But then Eddie’s shoulders deflate.

“Goodnight,” he says.

And that’s that.

Richie falls asleep almost immediately, which he’s thankful for. But it’s only been just under an hour when an incessant buzzing wakes him back up. Which he’s less thankful for.

He fumbles around the bedside dresser until his hand wraps around the phone. He answers without checking the caller ID. Not that it would matter if he tried. Who knows where his glasses have gone.

“Richard, where the fuck have you been,” growls a voice, and suddenly Richie’s wide awake.

“I - Um - Sorry,” he splutters, shooting upright. “Is this about tonight? Because I know you’re mad but-”

“Have you not seen  _ any _ of the messages we’ve been sending you?”

The sudden lack of interest in Richie’s fuck up maybe should have put Richie at least a little bit at ease. But, shockingly, it only worsens the anxiety growing in the pit of his stomach. What could possibly make Robert so mad he would forget?

“Well,” Richie starts, then stops. Why should he bother? “No,” he says, rather lamely.

“There’s an emergency on set,” Robert snaps. “You should have been here nearly forty minutes ago.”

“Forty minutes?” Richie repeats stupidly.

“Yes,” Robert continues, seething. “You’re lucky Stan was around. Who knows what would have happened if someone wasn’t there to cover your fucking ass.”

Somewhere between all of this, Eddie wakes up.

He’s staring up at Richie now, still burrowed under the mound of blankets, with blurry eyes and sleep-mussed hair.

“Don’t go,” he whispers, nearly pleading. If he were fully awake, Richie’s sure he wouldn’t have said anything. But Eddie’s always been a little clingy when he’s tired.

Richie silently brings a finger to his lips. If Robert finds out he’s here, he’s dead meat.

“I’m on my way,” Richie promises, and tries to ignore the almost child-like way Eddie pouts. He stumbles around the room, nearly toppling to the ground as he tries to put on his shoes. “I’m on my way. I’ll be there in thirty minutes-”

“It should only take you fifteen,” Robert says, voice slow and thick with suspicion. “If you’re at your house.”

“I am! Of course I am!” Richie insists. “Where else would I be? I just - I just have to - um - shower, ya know?”

“Do _not_ waste time, Richie!” Robert snarls. “Fifteen minutes!”  
“Okay, okay! Fifteen!”

Richie hangs up with a click.

“You can’t make it in fifteen,” Eddie says.

“I know. But I have to try, Robert would kill me-”

“He’ll kill you for hanging up on him.”

“I know! He’ll kill me for lots of things. I just - I gotta go, okay?”

“Whatever,” grumbles Eddie. He shoves his face in the pillow, muffling the words until they’re barely intelligible. “Doesn’t matter. Should stay here. But  _ no _ , gotta listening to fucking Robert.”

“I’m sorry, Eds,” Richie says. “I’ll see you at Bev’s, okay?”

Eddie grumbles out a response, face still buried in his pillow, but Richie doesn’t have time to stick around and figure out what he said. He just hurriedly ruffles his hair, earning him another indignant squawk, and runs to throw himself out the window.

-

Bill, meanwhile, has managed to climb through what he always assumed was Richie’s childhood bedroom window. Now he’s not so sure.

The bed is rumpled, as if it’s been slept in, and clothes and various school supplies litter the floor, but the room is void of one crucial aspect: Richie. In fact, the entire house is empty of any living being.

The whole experience is chilling, walking through Richie’s house alone in the dead of night.

But then someone knocks at the front door. And that’s almost worse.

Bill stares at the looming door for a moment, weighing the possibilities of just how likely it is that he’ll get murdered. He finally decides that, no, he won’t get murdered. They wouldn’t want to kill off their lead, right? Then what use would he be?

It gives him the courage to cross the room and hesitantly grab the door knob, but not before grabbing the first sharp object he can find. He shoves the scissors in his back pocket and swings the door open.

“Bill?”

“Stan?”

It near impossible to see any details in the night, but the voice is undeniably Stan’s. He still has his hand raised, like he’s ready to knock again.

“Is Richie here?” he asks.

“Richie was puh-puh-planning on stuh-stuh-staying at my house,” Bill says, like it’s obvious.

“And so you decided to go to Richie’s house?”

“Wuh-Well he didn’t actually stay.”

“So then why did you tell me?”

“Wuh-Why would you go to Ruh-Ruh-Richie’s house if you knew he was at my house?”

“I didn’t know he would be at your house!”

“So why are you here?”

“To see...Richie…” Stan says, trailing off lamely.

He shuffles nervously and Bill has to fight to keep the grin off his face. He’s finally backed him into a corner he can’t get out of.

“In the muh-middle of the night?” Bill says, quirking an eyebrow.

“Maybe there was an emergency!” Stan blurts.

“Was there?”

Stan shrugs. “I dunno. Maybe.”

Bill hums softly. “Then why don’t yuh-yuh-you come in. Tell me about this puh-possible emergency.”

“ _ Wait, no _ !”

But Stan’s pleas are a second too late. Bill finds the light switch and a moment later the living room is flooded in a warm, golden light, spilling easily out onto the front porch. Stan squints as the light washes over him, suddenly giving Bill the chance to see every one of his features with ease. Including the purpling bruise spreading over his cheekbone.

“Juh-Juh-Jesus,” Bill gasps out, reaching out to skim his fingers over the bruise. “What happened?”

“Nothing, it’s not important,” Stan says, flinching out of Bill’s touch. “Look, we shouldn’t be here without them home-”

“Stan, what the fuh-fuck.”

“C’mon, we should go.”

“Stan, talk to me!”

Stan takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I can’t - No. No. I don’t want to. Please, Bill, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You duh-don’t want to or you can’t?”

“What’s the difference?” Stan squeaks out.

He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, something that only happens when something’s really thrown him off. Stan’s usually so grounded. Despite this, he’s still stiff as a board. His arms hang straight as poles by his sides, and his hands are clenched in almost painful looking fists.

Bill slowly reaches out, taking Stan’s hands in his own. He uncurls the fists gently, hissing as he notices the half-moon indents Stan’s fingernails have made on the soft flesh of his palm.

He needs a new plan of action.

“Okay, wuh-we don’t need to tuh-tuh-talk about it,” Bill promises, voice soft. “Why don’t we juh-just get you cleaned up, yeah?”

Stan nods, allowing himself to be pulled into the house. Bill can feel the muscles tense under his hands when Stan notices what direction they’re headed in, but, still, he doesn’t say a word.

Even once he manages to get Stan in the bathroom with the door shut firmly behind him, the only sound that can be heard is the running faucet. Stan’s washing his hands furiously, though they look clean as ever.

Bill approaches him cautiously.

For a second he’s reminded of the California Thrasher. It had flown away the moment Bill had gotten noisy. It hadn’t mattered then, it was hardly the most important thing on his mind, but he can’t let it happen again.

So when he speaks, he’s sure to keep his voice as soft as he possibly can. “Stuh-Stuh-Stan-”

Despite Bill’s efforts, Stan’s words are harsh. “Look, I don’t know what you think happened, but whatever it is, it’s wrong. Okay? I just - I just fucking - I dunno - I fell, okay? I fell on my face on the way over here because - because I wanted to talk to Richie. That’s all there is to it, alright? There’s nothing-”

“I don’t th-th-think anything,” Bill insists. “I know what’s going on.”

Stan whips around fast as lightning, pointing an accusatory finger in Bill’s face. “You don’t know shit.”

Bill’s face darkens. Fuck it. Stan’s not some bird that needs to be coddled. He’s just an actor and he  _ will _ give Bill answers.

“I know none of this is real,” Bill spits, moving in to crowd Stan against the sink. “I know none of  _ you _ are real. I know you’re all just following a script. You all knew Bowers was gonna jump me on Monday and you just let it happen! And you knew Richie was gonna try and sleep with me! On the anniversary of Georgie’s death, no less. Except he’s not dead, is he? You said so yourself! But for fucking  _ years _ you let me think he was gone! Were you just gonna let me live my whole life like that? Just trapped in this fucking - this fucking - God, what  _ the fuck _ is this place?”

Stan’s shaking by the time Bill finishes. And when Stan finally speaks, it’s through a veil of tears so thick his words are barely intelligible. “Please don’t hurt me.”

For a second Bill’s confused. He can’t be that threatening, can he?

It’s only then that he realizes the scissors have somehow moved from his back pocket and are now being clutched in a white-knuckle grip in his right hand. He lets his grasp go slack, but doesn’t release the scissors completely.

“I - I’m - suh-suh - I’m suh-suh-suh-”

“I’m sorry.”

Bill nods, because,  _ yes _ , that’s exactly what he wants to say. But when he looks up it’s evident that Stan wasn’t supplying the words for Bill. He’s clutching the edge of the sink with one hand, as if he’s afraid he will collapse if he lets go, and with his free hand he’s attempting to shield the rest of his body.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, voice shaky. “I didn’t mean - I didn’t mean to hurt you. I wanted to help.  _ We _ wanted to help. But - But - But it’s not that easy. Robert, he’s  _ scary _ .”

“Who’s Ruh-Ruh-Robert?” Bill asks. “Is he the director?”

Stan nods.

Bill has to admit, he was expecting a more threatening name than Robert.

“Robert Gray,” Stan continues. “He’s one of the most powerful directors in Hollywood. He - um - He’s directed lots of stuff. You know that movie - the one with the clown? With the clown and he has the - the fucking balloons? Ya know?”

“ _ No _ !” Bill waves the scissors through the air to emphasize his point, and Stan shrieks. “Suh-Sorry! Sorry!”

Stan attempts to scramble away from him, but he has nowhere to go, and instead slams his head against the mirror. His chest is heaving and he watches the scissors between Bill’s fingers with eyes the size of saucers.

“I’m not guh-guh-gonna hurt you,” Bill whispers. “I - uh - look.” He chucks the scissors across the bathroom, hearing them land with a clatter in the bathtub. “Suh-Suh-See?”

Stan watches him warily, sniffling slightly.

“Huh-Hey,” Bill murmurs. He cups Stan’s face between his hand and gently wipes the remaining tears away with the pads of his thumbs. “I wuh-won’t hurt you. Promise.” Stan nods, though a few tears still drip from the corners of his eyes. “Robert,” Bill says once Stan’s breathing has evened again. “Whu-Why is he scary?”

Stan takes a deep breath.

Holds it.

For two. Three. Four.

Then all at once he lets it out, and in a rush points to the bruise blossoming across his face.

_ Oh. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yooo we've got Richie's pov!! And the plot is finally starting to move forward! This might be my favorite chapter so far, simply for that reason.
> 
> Sorry it took me so long to update, life has been very hectic recently. But also I think this chapter is the longest one yet! So hopefully that makes up for it a little bit. The next update might not be too quick either, but I promise I'll get it posted as soon as I can!
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading! Please leave comments and kudos and all that, I love hearing about your reactions!


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick Hockstetter is waiting for them behind the exit, and grins like a shark as soon as he lays eyes on them.
> 
> “Robert wants to see you in his office,” he says. To anyone listening it would sound casual, but Richie and Stan can recognize the edge of a taunt leaking into his voice.
> 
> “Tell him we’ll see him tomorrow,” Richie says, because Stan looks too terrified to speak. “It’s late, we’re exhausted.”
> 
> “He said it was urgent,” Patrick continues. “Needed to see you immediately.

“Wuh-What do you mean?” Bill asks. “Did he do this to you? is th-th-that what happened to Richie?”

“Bill,” Stan says. He grasps Bill by the shoulders. The action is so simple but, mixed with the tears still drying around Stan’s eyes, it knocks the wind out of Bill all the same. “Breathe.” Bill nods wordlessly. “Robert didn’t hit Richie. He’s never hit any of us before. I mean-” Stan squirms nervously. “-until now.”

“Fuh-Fuh-Fuck,” Bill whispers, ghosting his fingers over the bruise. “I’m gonna fucking kill him.”

“I appreciate that, Bill,” he says. His hand shakes as he lifts it to cover Bill’s, lacing their fingers together. “I do. But there’s no way you’re ever going to meet him.”

“Why?” Bill spits, ripping his hand out of Stan’s grasp. “Buh-Buh-Because I’m gonna be stuck here forever? You’re juh-just gonna - what - help from the sidelines? Your help means nuh-nothing to me if I’m suh-suh-stuck-”

“Jesus, Bill,” Stan says. The words come out in a rush. They’re still wobbly, as if the threat of tears is still just around the corner. “Relax, that’s not what I meant. Of course we want to get you out. I just - he’s a terrible person. If everything goes to plan, you’ll never get close enough to him to really meet him.”

“You have a pluh-pluh-plan?” Bill squeaks out.

“Okay, maybe plan is a generous word,” Stan says. “We have...an idea.”

“An idea?” Bill repeats.

“Uh-huh. It’s all sort of vague right now,” Stan admits.

“Wh-”

“Don’t worry about it,” Stan says. “It’s enough of a plan to at least get you out.”

“But-”

“You have enough on your plate as it is. We’ve got it covered, alright?”

“You juh-juh-just said it was vague,” Bill counters. Stan squirms. “C’mon, I wuh-wanna help.” Stan’s eyes dart towards the bathtub, eyeing it warily, as if worried the scissors will come flying out of their own volition. Bill’s stomach drops. “Stan. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“I know,” Stan says, voice squeaky, but his gaze doesn’t falter.

“Stan,” Bill repeats, taking his face between his hands. He turns his head to look at him, but Stan’s eyes still wander. “I puh-puh-pruh-promise.”

Stan finally locks eyes with Bill. “You have to swear you won’t be mad.”

“I - Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

“There’s just - It’s not like any of this stuff is legal. Robert’s created this entire thing based on loopholes and your parents-”

“My parents?” Bill feels as if the wind’s been knocked out of him. “My parents - th-they - they’re in on - on this?”

“I mean, yeah,” Stan murmurs. “None of this would have happened without them. They were huge stars in the 80’s and 90’s-”

“But that’s nuh-nuh-now,” Bill says.

“Bill, it’s 2019.”

Bill shakes his head furiously. “No. Nuh-Nuh-No. No, no, no, nuh-no. That’s - That’s not possible.”

“They wanted to relive their glory days. Robert was a friend of theirs. They came up with the idea together.”

Bill presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, cursing at the wetness he feels there. “That’s not - It can’t - Wh-Wh-Why?”

Stan squeezes his eyes shut. “Bill, I don’t think now is the time to do this. Robert’s gonna notice something’s up. He - He already knows. That’s - That’s why-” His hands fly up to grapple at Bill’s forearms as another wave of sobs wrack his body. “Bill, he’s gonna fucking kill me. I can’t spend anymore time in here. I have - I have to go-”

“Wuh-Wuh-Wait!” Bill blurts. He slams his palms against the sink, on either side of Stan, effectively trapping him in. “Juh-Just a few more minutes. Please.”

Stan eyes him warily. “Bill, if I - if I spend anymore time in here. If he gets anymore - anymore suspicious, I swear you’ll never - you’ll never see me again. I can’t-”

“We want tuh-to get off the show anyway,” Bill insists. “Why does is muh-muh-matter?”

“It matters, Bill!” Stan hisses. “I know you don’t know this, but this - this  _ thing _ , it affects more than just you!”

Bill wants to fight back. He wants to scream and shout, because  _ he’s _ the one who’s stuck here. Not Stan, not Richie, not fucking anyone else.  _ Him _ . But Stan looks exhausted. With red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained cheeks, he looks like he’s about to pass out.

“Okay,” Bill whispers. “Juh-Just one more thing.” Stan opens his mouth to protest but Bill beats him to it. “ _ Please _ .”

Stan scrubs at his eyes as he nods. “Fine. Just one more.”

“Georgie,” Bill says. “Where is he? Wh-What happened to huh-huh-him?”

“Honestly,” Stan murmurs, eyes locked somewhere just to the right of Bill’s head, “I don’t know. I know he’s alive. The last time I saw him was after - after he, ya know,  _ ‘drowned’ _ . He was soaking wet, and I think he was cold, he kept - he kept shivering. But he was so confused. He kept asking where you were. And no one would give him an answer, they were all so focused on whatever it was they were doing. By the time I got to him, he was near tears. I just felt awful. So we - the losers and I - we all sat with him and tried to explain what was going on. We only had a few minutes before Robert took him away and I - I haven’t seen him since.”

“But he’s okay?”

Stan nods. “Bill, please-”

Bill forces himself to step back. He’s barely done so before Stan is throwing the bathroom door open and sprinting down the hall.

Bill takes a deep breath, turning to stare into his own eyes in the mirror. “Fuck.”

From down the hall, a vague  _ thud _ meets his ears, followed by a loud, “ _ What the fuck _ ?” As he exits the bathroom, Bill can spot Richie, red-faced and out of breath, waiting just on the other side of the hall. His hands have come to wind around Stan’s waist, who has thrown his own arms around Richie’s neck, his face buried in his shoulder.

Richie laughs, though the sound is thick with nerves. “Where are you going in such a rush?”

“Nowhere,” Stan grumbles, the words muffled by Richie’s T-Shirt.

Richie shoots Bill a confused glance as he starts to rub a hand soothingly over Stan’s back. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine-”

“He was hurt when he sh-showed up,” Bill blurts out. “I was just truh-truh-trying to help.”

The corners of Richie’s lips tug downwards. “Hurt? Hey, Staniel-” he prods gently at Stan’s back. “Hey, look at me.”

With a final sniffle, Stan peels himself away from Richie. Bill can see Richie’s breathing hitch, just for a moment, as he takes in the blooming bruise.

“What happened?” Richie whispers.

“Nothing,” Stan grumbles. “It was nothing I just…”

“It was Buh-Buh-Bowers,” Bill cuts in. “He - uh - caught Stan on a late night walk.”

“Okay,” murmurs Richie. “And why are you here?” The words are forceful, demanding an answer. But they aren’t harsh. They aren’t threatening.

“I…” Bill trails off lamely, realizing he has no real excuse. “I got...lonely.”

“Oh!” Richie says. He shuffles nervously. “Do you want to stay over?”

“No,” Bill is quick to shake his head. “No, I-I’m okay now.”

Richie furrows his eyebrows. “Are you sure? It’s not a problem.”

Bill shakes his head again. If he stays, he’s sure he won’t be able to restrain himself from asking Richie a million questions. He can’t keep coming up with excuses to drag his friends into the fucking bathroom of all places.

“Th-Th-Thank you,” he says. “But I’m alright.”

“Okay,” murmurs Richie. His attention is quickly diverted back to Stan, whose face he cups gently between his hands. “You need hot chocolate.”

“I don’t need hot chocolate-”

“You need hot chocolate.”

-

By the time Bill’s convinced Stan’s okay enough to be without him, it’s nearly three in the morning. Bill left to return to his house merely ten minutes ago, but Stan and Richie are already trudging across the set, heading towards the nearest exit.

“We have to avoid Robert,” Stan says, voice barely above a whisper.

“He’s not usually on set this late,” Richie says. “I think we’ll be okay.”

“But he was really pissed,” Stan presses on. “He probably stayed to make sure everything went smoothly, which, it fucking didn’t, by the way.”

“It went fine,” Richie insists.

“Yeah, once you got there!”

“Stan, I’m sure you handled it fine. You always get like this-”

“This is different, Rich,” Stan hisses. “This for real looks like a fuck up.”

And he sounds so sure that Richie doesn’t have it in him to argue.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “We’ll avoid Robert.”

Unfortunately, keeping this promise is not as easy as it seems.

Patrick Hockstetter is waiting for them behind the exit, and grins like a shark as soon as he lays eyes on them.

“Robert wants to see you in his office,” he says. To anyone listening it would sound casual, but Richie and Stan can recognize the edge of a taunt leaking into his voice.

“Tell him we’ll see him tomorrow,” Richie says, because Stan looks too terrified to speak. “It’s late, we’re exhausted.”

“He said it was urgent,” Patrick continues. “Needed to see you immediately.

Richie grits his teeth. “Fine. Fucking fine.”

They seem to be at his office in no time, staring at the looming door with hammering hearts and legs full of led. No matter how they try, they can’t take those last few steps inside.

“Okay,” Richie finally says after what feels like hours, but must only be seconds. “I’ll see what he wants, you stay here.”

Richie doesn’t wait for a response before pushing the door open, forcing his legs to cross the threshold into the office. Robert is sitting at his desk with his back straight as a rod. He’s scribbling away on what looks to be next week’s script, and doesn’t even flinch as Richie speaks.

“You wanted to see me?”

“Mhm,” Robert says. “We have some things that need to be discussed.” He finally looks up. “Where’s Stanley?”

“He - um - He couldn’t make it,” Richie says, fumbling through his words. “He had to go home-”

Robert quirks an eyebrow. “He was told to be here too, wasn’t he?”

“I - Yes-”

“Then where the fuck is he?”

Richie opens his mouth to answer, but his throat is suddenly dry as sandpaper. Try as he might, not a single sound will come out. Luckily, Stan appears in the doorway. He’s white as a sheet and his fists are clenched so tightly that Richie knows his nails will draw blood, but he’s there. Besides, Richie isn’t doing much better.

“Close the door behind you,” Robert says as he rises to his feet.

Stan does as he’s told, flinching as he hears the quiet  _ click _ behind him.

“What the fuck was that?” Robert sneers.

He’s getting closer and closer, each footstep sounding as loud as gunshots to the boys across the room.

“Nothing,” Stan says. “It wasn’t what it looked like.”

“It wasn’t a big deal,” Richie adds.

“Oh? Then what was it?”

“It was nothing,” Stan insists. “I was just - He saw my face and wanted to help.”

“Oh, right,” Robert murmurs. “This.” His fingers brush over the bruise, and Stan hisses as his thumb presses against the injured skin. “And whose fault is that?”

Stan takes one look at Richie and knows, without a doubt, he’s about to say something stupid. He’s about to open his big fat mouth and say something that will get him in more trouble than he can handle.

Strangely, this gives Stan a sudden surge of courage.

“Yours,” he spits.

_Whack!_  
He nearly loses his balance at the mere force of the slap. He teeters on his feet, searching desperately for his footing, as the world spins around him. The world continues to spin for what feels like centuries, all the colors blurring together until there’s nothing for Stan to look at but there mere mush of what used to be an office.

Somewhere to his right, Richie screams.

“Mine,” Stan forces out. He can taste bile rising in the back of his throat. “I fucked up.”

“ _ Dude, what the fuck _ ?” Richie says, voice sounding strangled. “What the fuck? What the fuck?  _ Why would you do that _ ?”

As the world finally stops spinning, Stan can make out the shape of Richie stepping in front of him. His hands are balled into fists and his shoulders are so stiff that for a split-second Stan’s worried he’ll actually try to fight Robert.

But then Robert says, “Step back, Tozier. We’ll talk about you next,” and Richie’s entire demeanor deflates.

Before Stan can blink, Richie’s on the floor and Robert’s barely an inch from his face.

“What happened?” Robert hisses. Stan squeezes his eyes shut, forcing down the gag that builds in the back of his throat at the rancid taste of his breath.

“Nothing,” he repeats.

“Stanley,” Robert says, his voice sweet like poison. He raises his hand to card through Stan’s hair and Stan winces as his fingers tighten around the curls. “You know you can tell me anything, right?” Stan nods. “Then why-” Despite his efforts, Stan cries out pitifully as Robert’s wrist twists, tugging his hair in all the wrong directions. “-are you lying to me.”

“I’m not,” Stan insists. The lie tastes bitter on his tongue.  _ He knows he knows he knows _ -

Robert pulls again. He continues to pull until Stan’s nearly lifted off his feet, only the tips of his toes brushing the ground. Stan thinks he can hear Richie yelling to put him down, but over the ringing in his ears, he can’t be sure.

“I swear,” Stan chokes out. “He was just helping. You know how he is.”

Robert lets go of his locks, dropping Stan to his hands and knees with a  _ thud _ .

“I know him,” Robert says. Casually, as if Stan’s head isn’t pounding. “I know him better than you. I made him who he is.”

“You didn’t make him shit,” Richie spits. He’s standing now - When did he stand up? - and if Stan were in Robert’s place, he would cower under the force of Richie’s glare. But Stan’s not in Robert’s place. And Robert brushes the glare off as nothing more than a mild inconvenience.

“Actors,” he says with a dry chuckle. “You’re all the same.”

Richie takes a deep breath. He tries to remember the breathing techniques Eddie taught him. He just needs to get rid of the fire in his veins before he says something he’ll regret.

“We work with him everyday,” Richie says. “If something was up, we would notice.”

“But you did notice,” Robert says. He nudges Stan’s ribs with the toe of his boot. “Didn’t you?”

Stan keeps his gaze locked on the floor. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“At the house,” Robert continues. “You weren’t exactly thrilled to be alone with him.”

“I didn’t have a cover story,” Stan says, voice shaky.

There’s isn’t a drop of doubt in Stan’s mind that Robert knows there’s more to the story. But, amazingly, he doesn’t push. Instead he turns to Richie.

“Last night-”

“I don’t know if you can call it last night, it was only a few hours ago,” Richie snarks.

“Explain yourself.”

“Well if something was only a few hours ago it sounds pretentious if you call it yesterday -  _ Oof. Fuck! _ ”

He doubles over from the punch that follows, Robert’s knuckles imbedded deep in his gut.

“You know what I mean, you little rat,” Robert growls.

Richie takes a handful of deep, gasping breaths before responding. “He didn’t want me to touch him. What did you want me to do?”

“I wanted you to follow directions.”

“I wasn’t going to coherce him into sex. Even you have to know the fallout from that would have been a disaster.”

“Maybe it would’ve given me a reason to get rid of you.”

Robert’s smirking now, and it only feeds the monster that claws at Richie’s stomach. For a second he allows himself to imagine his own fist against Robert’s nose, how the cracking of the bone would sound.

But he settles for, “You’re the one who wanted me to date him. It’s not my fault the internet goes batshit every time we fucking hold hands.”

“Don’t talk back to me, Richard.”

“Don’t call me Richard, that’s disgusting-”

The rest of his words are stolen off his tongue as he’s suddenly shoved against the wall. Robert’s right arm lays firmly across his chest, leaving no room for air in Richie’s lungs, while his left hand roughly grips Richie chin, forcing him to look him in the eye. He couldn’t look away if he tried.

“You have one week to fix this,” Robert sneers. He speaks slowly, as if talking to a child. “Do you understand?”

“Mhm,” Richie grunts out.

“Good boy.”

Robert releases Richie, who immediately starts to suck in deep, greedy breaths. By the time his lungs have been properly refilled with air, Robert’s already turned his wrath onto Stan once again.

“And you,” he says, ignoring how Stan flinches. “Two strikes in less than a week. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t fire you.”

“Because - I - Well - I-”

“Do you know how many actors there are just dying to take your place?”

“I - I know, Sir.”

“Ones who maybe actually know how to fucking act.”

“I’m sorry.” The words sound pathetic, even to Stan. This is it. He’s never going to get another job. He’s going to have to wait tables for the rest of his life. He’s going to have to hear that dreaded, “We’ll let you know,” audition after audition. His face is going to show up on one of those dumb “Where are they now?” articles. He’s never going to be able to finish telling Bill everything. Fuck, he’s never even going to see him again. What if he spends the rest of his life thinking Stan never truly cared about him? What if-

“You can’t fire him,” Richie blurts out. “Bill will try to look for him. You remember what happened with Bev, don’t you?”

This seems to make Robert pause. He does remember what happened after he fired Beverly. Bill hadn’t understood why she had left without leaving a way to contact her, and had been hellbent on finding her again. It took just over a month to get him to drop the subject.

“One more chance,” he says, the glint in his eyes betraying the fury he feels. “That’s all you get.”

Stan nods furiously. “Thank you.”

“Get out before I change my mind.”

Stan and Richie are gone before the words have finished leaving his mouth.

-

“You didn’t tell me he hit you.”

Stan and Richie are sitting in a nearby all night diner, cramped into a booth near the back. Not that it matters. They’re the only customers at the moment, and the employees are too exhausted to be properly starstruck.

This diner is usually pretty good about leaving them alone, one of the reasons it’s become the losers’ favorite. The food’s kind of shitty and the service is slow, but there’s hardly ever anyone to interrupt them. Anyone who knows this hole in the wall knows better than to crash a celebrity’s dinner to ask for an autograph. Tonight, Richie’s couldn’t be more grateful for that.

“It only happened once,” Stan shrugs. His head is bowed, the bruises hidden beneath a shield of hair. Not that there’s anyone to notice. Richie doubts the waitress would care.

“Twice,” Richie corrects. “What the fuck did you do? I mean, it’s not like he’s never been above violence before, but he usually doesn’t want to do the dirty work himself.”

Stan glances around the diner, his eyes nervously checking every nook and cranny. Richie doesn’t think he’s ever seen him look more paranoid. But he can’t blame him. When you spend most of your adolescence having your every move recorded, you grow cautious. Stan in particular is known amongst their friends as forgetting there aren’t cameras in real life.

Over a minute later, Stan seems satisfied with his sweep. He leans across the table, gesturing for Richie to do the same. They’re nearly nose to nose when Stan finally whispers out his reply.

“Bill knows.”

Richie blanches. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Keep your fucking voice down!” Stan hisses. “Yes, I’m serious. I don’t know how he found out, but as soon as I got there he cornered me and wanted to know  _ everything _ .”

“And Robert knows?” Richie squeaks.

“I think he suspects.”

“Jesus, Stan, we just lied to Robert’s face-”

“It’s not like we haven’t before.”

“But nothing this big! Holy shit. If he finds out-”

“He won’t. We just have to explain to Bill that it can’t happen again. Eventually, Robert will think it was just a big fluke.”

Richie tugs his lower lip between his teeth, chewing slowly. “That sounds risky.”

“It’s the best option we have,” Stan says. “Who knows what Robert will do if he finds out.”

Richie nods thoughtfully. “Back in his office, he said you had two strikes. And in the group chat, you said he was upset with you. Did that also have to do with this? How long has this been going on?”

“I don’t know,” Stan murmurs. “I only notice a few days ago when Mike mentioned he was acting weird. So when we went bird watching - I dunno - I was trying to be subtle. But I’ve never been able to outsmart Robert.”

“I don’t think anyone can,” Richie huffs. “There’s a reason this hasn’t been shut down yet. So what do we do?”

“We should tell the others, get their input,” Stan says. “But I think we should continue with the plan as normal. There’s no reason not to.”

“What does he know about the plan?”

“Nothing. If he had known he has to wait until his birthday he would have convinced me to change it. It was too dangerous to risk.”

Richie drums his fingers against the table. The soft _ thump, thump, thump _ is almost comforting. Almost.

“What if it doesn’t work?” he murmurs. “What if we can’t sneak him out before the surgery?”

“We will, of course we will.”

“But-”

“Richie. It’ll be fine. If there’s one thing Robert can’t resist, it’s gloating. The entire crew will know when the surgery is within the week it’s scheduled. Trust me. We’ll know what our window of time is.”

Richie nods again, though he doesn’t look entirely convinced. “I hope you’re right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YO sorry this took forever to post. But I have more free time now so hopefully I can do more frequent updates.
> 
> Also! If you ever want to say hi, my fanfic tumblr is @s-oulpunk. I haven't used it for a little bit because I've been focused on this fic, but I want to start writing more short stories too so hopefully I'll be using it more soon! I've posted a few other single chapter IT fics, and they're posted here as well as tumblr.
> 
> BUT! That's not the most important thing right now. What are you guys' thoughts on this chapter? Where do you think Georgie is now? Or Bev? I love seeing your comments, they make my day! I really hope you liked this chapter! Thank you so much for reading, you don't know how much I appreciate all of you!


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill does the only thing he can think to do.
> 
> He swings his arm back and rams his fist as hard as he can directly into Henry’s nose.

“Someone was tired, it’s nearly noon. Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah,” Bill mumbles, barely sparing his mother a glance.

In reality, he hardly slept at all. His mind has been on overdrive since his conversation with Stan, which he feels the slightest bit bad for. He’s always hated seeing Stan cry, and the thought that he was the one to cause those tears was almost enough to set him over the edge himself.

But that’s hardly the most of his worries.

Georgie’s alive. He’s out there somewhere. No one knows where somewhere is, but  _ he’s alive. _

And yet his parents never said a word. For three fucking years they watched him mourn. They watched him cry until he was sick. They let him convince himself it was his fault until he had nearly driven himself mad. They told him he was crazy when he begged them to entertain the idea that maybe he really was still alive.

Bill had truly been considering never speaking to them again.

But then he thinks of how Stan’s sobs sounded as they echoed off the bathroom walls and suddenly he isn’t too sure. Stan had been so afraid of being found out, Bill can’t possibly put him in jeopardy like that again.

So he finds himself seated at the breakfast table the very next morning - or afternoon, more accurately - doing his best not to glare into his pancakes.

“That’s good,” his mother grins. “Are you doing anything with your friends today?”

“I dunno,” he says. “Probably nuh-nuh-not. You know how this time of yuh-year is.”

His mother nods. “Of course, honey. But try not to just lie in your bed all weekend. It’s not good for you.”

The thing about Sharon Denbrough, Bill now realizes, is she’s selfish. He thinks maybe a part of him always knew. But it’s not something most kids want to think about their parents. No one wants proof that their mother would stop caring for them if it benefited her in some way. But Bill is drowning in the fact that this is his reality. It’s what happened to Georgie, after all.

Sharon’s good at playing the part of a mother. She’s good at cooking dinner every night, she’s good at cleaning up whatever mess might be strewn about the house, she’s good at talking to his teachers, and she’s good at that loving-mom voice she always seems to have on. But she doesn’t care about any of it. The only reason she goes through all the work is because thousands of people watch her each and every day, and she wants them to like her. She  _ needs _ them to like her. Not Bill, not her husband, but the viewers.

Zachary Denbrough is much of the same. He goes to work to “provide for the family” every day (though Bill’s starting to wonder what he’s really doing, surely both his parents are being paid for the full time acting gigs), watches Sunday football, and cracks dumb jokes.

All in all, they are the poster parents for “Old Fashioned American Family.”

They hadn’t been the worst parents to grow up with. There had been moments they made him laugh, moments they held him when he was upset, moments they made him feel like the luckiest kid in the world. Though he can’t help but wonder how much of it was really for him.

“Right,” he murmurs.

“I’m serious,” Sharon continues. She’s furiously scrubbing dishes as she talks and Bill wants to scream. He just wants her to sit down and look him in the eye for once. “I know you get upset around this time, but just laying around isn’t going to make it any better.”

“Neither is a-a-anything else,” Bill grumbles.

“Don’t take that tone with me!” Sharon scolds. “I really don’t like that you just sit in your room all day every day. There’s so much you could be doing. Last year you didn’t even go to school!”

“Georgie is duh-duh-duh-dead!” Bill cries out.

“You think I don’t know that? I miss him as much as you, but I don’t give in and let myself be lazy because of it! Look at all that I’m getting done!” she gestures wildly to the dishes drying around her. “You think I could do any of this if I just laid in bed all day? No. There are things that need to get done, Bill. Someday a day will come when you can’t afford to just sleep your way through it. Someday you’re going to need to muscle through the pain.”

“Wuh-Wuh-Wuh-Well that day’s nuh-nuh-not here yet, so I’m guh-going back to sleep!” Bill says. He tries to sound authoritative, like he has some idea of why he does the things he does, but the words come out shaky and strained.

He half expects his mother to yell at him again, but she must hear the way his voice wobbles because she simply sighs.

“Fine,” she says.

Bill’s halfway up the stairs when she calls out to him again.

“I have to tell you before I forget,” she says. “You know how I am.” Then she laughs, as if her and Bill hadn’t been having the worst conversation possible a moment ago. “I’m gonna pull you out of school early on Tuesday for a doctor’s appointment. You’re way overdue for a checkup.”

-

True to his word, Bill spends the rest of the weekend in his room.

He itches to get out and see his friends, to get more answers. But Stan had told him to relax. He had said everything was under control. All Bill needs to do is not raise too many question marks, which means continuing on with life as normal. Besides, he gets some sort of raw thrill from knowing he’s making who knows how many viewers watch the most boring television show in history.

But by the time Sunday comes to an end, he’s bored out of his mind and, for once, can’t be more excited for school.

The rest of the losers are already there, huddled together under the stairs. In the back of his mind, Bill knows he should stay lowkey. He knows he shouldn’t do anything out of the ordinary. But he can’t stop himself from running to them so fast he slams directly into Mike, sending them both stumbling a few steps.

“Hey,” Mike grins, steadying Bill with an arm around his shoulders. “How are you feeling?”

Bill had been nervous about seeing the others. How would he know if Stan had told them? How does he even know if they’re on his side? But seeing Mike’s smile, there’s not a drop of doubt in his mind. These are his friends, they’re here to help him.

“Better,” he says, and he can’t stop himself from beaming right back at Mike.

“I’m assuming you didn’t study for the Physics test, did you?” Richie asks.

“He’s only asking because he didn’t study at all,” Stan drawls. “He needs someone to give him the answers.”

“Stanley Uris, I detest that,” Richie says. “You say that like it’s my fault I didn’t study!”

“It  _ is _ your fault you didn’t study!” Stan shoots back. “ _ You _ were the one who didn’t study!”

“I was worried about my favorite boyfriend! He didn’t call all day!”

“I was suh-suh-sleeping,” Bill supplies helpfully.

“I’ll help you study, Rich,” Ben offers, smiling sweetly. “I’ll bring my notes to lunch.”

Everything is _ so normal _ .

Bill isn’t sure what he expected, but he can feel his heart sinking more and more with each passing moment. He hates just waiting around for something to happen. He wants to  _ do something _ . He has far too much energy to sit here and listen to his friends discuss their fucking physics test.

“Hey, fucktard, what have you got for me today?”

Shockingly, his savior comes in the form of Henry Bowers.

Maybe savior’s a strong word. Anyone deserving of that title wouldn’t rip open Stan’s backpack, nearly shredding the material to death and dumping the contents across the floor.

But it gives Bill a reason to jump into action.

“Fuh-Fuh-Fuck off!” Bill is quick to step in front of Stan, who’s dropped down to gather his scattered supplies. “What the fuck do you wuh-wuh-want, Bowers?”

Henry’s eyebrows shoot up. “None of your business, Buh-Buh-Billy. Now step back.”

Bill shakes his head.

“C’mon, don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

“Bill,” Stan murmurs. He tugs on the hem of Bill’s jeans. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay!” Bill snarls. “You can’t juh-juh-just fuck around and do whatever th-th-the fuck you want!”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Billy,” Henry says, voice slow enough that Bill won’t miss a single syllable. “I can, as you put it, do whatever the fuck I want. You-” He shoves Bill firmly in the chest. “-just have to learn your place.”

“Bill, seriously, it’s fine,” Stan insists. He reaches out again but Bill shakes him off.

“Goodluck trying to teach muh-muh-me,” Bill hisses.

Bill can hear the losers screaming as Henry grabs him by the shoulders and slams him against the wall. The wind flies out of him with an  _ ‘umph’ _ and Bill’s left gasping for air that just won’t come.

“Oh, I’ll try alright,” Henry murmurs. Bill fights the urge to gag as Henry’s breath washes over his face, filling his nostrils with a stank rotten-egg smell. “And don’t worry, I’m a very good teacher.”

Bill never even gets a chance to see the punch. One moment he’s struggling to breathe, the next he’s still struggling to breathe except now his mouth tastes like blood and his vision is blurry with tears.

“Are you getting it yet?” Henry sneers, voice directly in his ear.

Bill takes a minute to gather his thoughts.

His breath is coming back, slowly but surely. None of his teeth feel loose. His head is throbbing but it’s nothing he hasn’t dealt with before.

He spits a mouthful of blood directly into Henry’s face. “No.”

“ _ You little brat _ !”

Bill knows Henry’s hitting him. He knows he’s spilling blood onto the shiny hallway floor. He knows he’s covered head to toe in bruises and tomorrow he is going to  _ ache _ .

But he can barely feel it.

His mind is blank, all he can think about is that fuzzy, TV static noise his brain is making. It’s white and grey and black and buzzing around his brain incessantly. It’s kind of nice. No need to stress about the cameras or the actors or the fucking script. Just him and the static.

But then Henry is wrenched away from him and the static dies down.

Henry looks downright feral. He’s practically foaming at the mouth as he fights against Mike and Ben’s grip. And Bill knows he should be thankful. He’s leaning against the wall for support and every time he breathes a shooting pain is sent up his side, he wouldn’t be able to take much more. But now reality’s starting to fade back in, and he can’t have that.

So he does the only thing he can think to do.

He swings his arm back and rams his fist as hard as he can directly into Henry’s nose.

Blood spurts everywhere. Bill can feel it splatter across his face, sticky and warm. A terrifying amount of pleasure warms his entire body at the feeling. The substance coats the sides of Mike and Ben’s faces and they release Henry with a shocked cry, leaving him to tumble to the ground.

“ _ You son of a bitch _ !” Henry’s screaming, the words garbled through the blood spilling from between his lips. “ _ You fucking bastard! I’ll kill you _ !”

But he never gets the chance.

Because Bill’s on him in a second, his knees trapping him beneath him and his knuckles slamming him into the floor. Over, and over, and over again.

With each hit, a little bit of feeling returns, until Bill’s certain he’s going to overflow. All he can think about is his fabricated reality, and Georgie being alive, and his parents taking away his childhood just to get on TV, and Georgie being alive, and the entire world watching this, and Georgie being alive. It burns him from the inside out.

He knows who he wishes was in Henry’s place. He may not know what his face looks like, but he knows it would be a thousand times more satisfying to break Robert Gray’s nose instead.

But Henry’s a good substitute. And it’s not like it isn’t satisfying to watch his face get progressively more and more bloody. He’s tortured him for as long as Bill can remember. No matter whether or not Robert told him to do it, he deserves some payback.

By the time Mike and Richie are able to pull him back, Henry is almost unrecognizable. But Bill still fights against his friends’ grips. He needs  _ more _ .

He doesn’t know where this urge came from. It’s harsh and animalistic and, quite frankly, terrifying. Bill never thought of himself as a particularly violent person, but this is the first time in over a week he hasn’t been so stressed he feared his veins would pop. It’s frighteningly cathartic.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Bill knows he needs to relax. But a much bigger part of him wants to jump back in there, get a few more good hits in.

But then Stan’s there.

He looks scared out of his mind, eyes blown wide and jaw stiff, but he cups Bill’s face anyway. Stan, who has to wash his hands at least three times after touching anything even remotely dirty, has a hand on each of Bill’s blood-covered cheeks. He rests their foreheads together and his eyes, which stay wide open, stare deep into Bill’s soul. Bill feels exposed, like Stan can see directly through him and into the deepest, darkest parts of his mind.

It’s maybe the scariest thing to happen all day. And yet Bill feels his breathing even out.

Stan breathes in synch with him - In, out. In, out. In, out - until Bill goes slack in his friends’ hold.

“Are you alright? Jesus Christ. What the fuck was that?”

Bill nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound of Richie’s voice. He hadn’t realized, in his crazed state, that his hearing had momentarily vanished. But now that it’s back it’s all he can focus on. The whispering of the crowd (when did a crowd gather here?), the labored sound of his own breathing, the fucking sobbing coming from Henry Bowers. Never in all of Bill’s seventeen years of life, has he heard Henry Bowers cry. Until now.

“Bill,” murmurs Stan. There are a million voices that call his attention, but Stan’s is the only one that matters. “I told you it was fine.”

“Wasn’t fuh-fuh-fuh-fine,” Bill says, the words slurred slightly.

“Well  _ now _ it’s not!” Stan hisses. “Holy shit, look at your face.”

“I fell,” Bill deadpans.

Stan chuckles, but the fear in his eyes doesn’t lessen. It never does. “You’re so fucking stupid.” He wipes just beneath Bill’s eyes, catching tears that Bill hadn’t even known had been shed, and ignores how Bill winces when he presses too harshly. “Are you okay?”

“I’ll buh-be fine.”

Stan nods. For a second, just one single second, it looks like he wants to say something else. But then the second passes and Stan pulls his hands away like he’s been stung. His lips twist into a disgusted frown as he stares down at his own fingers.

“You can guh-guh-go,” Bill says, though he wants Stan to do anything but.

But Stan hates the feeling of Henry Bowers’ blood on him, and he takes off like a bullet to the nearest bathroom.

Bill moves to follow him, but Mike pulls him back.

“Nuh-Nuh-Need to get cleaned up,” Bill whines. Fucking  _ whines _ .

“I know,” Mike says. “There’s a teacher's bathroom not too far away. It’ll be better.”

Bill isn’t sure about this plan, but Mike sounds sure of himself so he agrees. Not that he would have much say in it anyway. Mike and Richie have already managed to drag him halfway down the hall.

“Where’s Ben?” Bill wonders, straining his neck to catch sight of his friend.

“He went after Stan,” Richie says. “Don’t worry, Big Bill, he’s alright.”

Bill grunts in response.

Mike is able to sweet talk the bathroom key from a passing teacher, because of course he is, he’s Mike, and a moment later Bill’s being leaned against the sink.

The teacher’s bathroom is nice. Single stall, covered in various student art, and void of any graffiti. For a passing second Bill’s jealous. Then Mike presses a paper towel against his nose and bathrooms are suddenly the least of Bill’s concerns.

He instinctively jerks back, cupping his nose to protect it from the offending paper towel.

“Bill,” Mike sighs. “Come on.”

Bill hesitantly drops his hands, wincing as Mike brings the towel back up.

“Are you alright?” Mike asks.

Bill nods, though he isn’t so sure.

“Really?” Richie says. He’s pacing frantically, and Bill lazily watches him move back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. “Because you look like utter shit.”

Bill shrugs. “Buh-Buh-But so does Henry.”

Richie’s silent, raking a hand through his wild curls.

“Should I not huh-huh-have done that?” Bill asks, eyes darting between Richie and Mike. “Is he nice-” Bill struggles with the next word, it tastes wrong in his mouth. “-off suh-suh-suh-set or something?”

“No,” Mike murmurs. “He’s always an asshole. No matter what.”

“Watching you beat the shit out of him was the most entertaining thing I’ve seen all year,” Richie says.

“So why are you so nervous?” Bill asks when Richie’s pacing doesn’t let up.

Richie comes to a halting stop. It’s so sudden that even he looks surprised by it.

“I’m not,” he says. “It’s fine. It’s just...weird. I’ve never talked to you like this before.”

“You think it’s wuh-wuh-weird for  _ you _ ?” Bill says with a chuckle. “Imagine being me.”

Richie laughs softly. There’s not as much life behind it as Bill’s used to, but it’s still a comforting sound to hear. “Touché.”

“I’m glad you know,” Mike says. “It makes things easier on my conscience.”

“Me too,” murmurs Bill. “I’m glad I know too.”

“Your knuckles are completely destroyed,” Mike says with a sigh. “I’m gonna get you something to wrap your hand with. I’ll be right back. Richie, hold this here.” He guides his hand to the paper towel against Bill’s nose. “Don’t let him start bleeding again.”  
And then he’s gone, leaving Bill alone with a somehow even more nervous Richie. He can barely look Bill in the eye and, despite the paper towel he has to hold against his face, he stands as far away from Bill as he possibly can.

All weekend, Bill’s been imagining this moment. There are a million things he wants to ask. What happened Friday? What’s the plan Stan mentioned? Is this real? Does he  _ love him _ ?

But the words get lodged in his throat. Try as he might, none of them will come out. So, instead, he asks, “Are the tuh-tuh-teachers actors too?”

Richie cracks a small smile. “That’s your biggest fear right now?”  
Bill shrugs. “I’m juh-just wondering.”

“No,” Richie says. “They’re not actors. I mean, I think they have some training, but they’re all real teachers.”

Bill hums softly. “Wh-What about the doctors?” Richie freezes, his eyes glazing over slightly. “Rich? Are you alright?”

“Why?” Richie asks, taking a step closer. “Why would you ask that? Did something happen?”

“I have a ch-ch-checkup,” Bill says.

“That’s it?”

Bill nods. “Is that - Is that suh-suh-something I should be worried about?”

“No,” Richie says hurriedly. “No. No, that’s fine. Um - Yeah. The doctors are real too. You don’t need to worry about any of that stuff.”

Bill’s sure there’s more to it than that. But he can’t bring himself to ask. Richie already looks so upset, face pinched and eyes glassy.

“I’m sorry,” Richie murmurs. It’s so soft, Bill barely catches it. “This is - This is shitty. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Bill says. “It’s not yuh-yuh-your fault.”

“But I wasn’t exactly your knight in shining armor either,” Richie frowns. “I just - I could’ve done more. I let some shitty things happen.”

Bill wants to tell him it’s okay, wants to tell him it’s not true. But it is true. Shitty things happened and, as far as Bill knows, Richie did nothing to stop them.

But he can’t bring himself to be as mad as he was again. So he reaches out and pulls Richie into a silent hug, hoping it lets him know exactly what he’s thinking.

-

The doctor’s office sets him on edge. He believes what Richie said, he really does, but something about it seemed wrong. Like Richie was holding back. Like there was something he wasn’t telling him.

But Bill shakes the thought from his mind. He’s sure Richie would have mentioned it if it were important. He’s his friend.

He’s snapped out of his thoughts as the doctor returns, eyes darting over his notes.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news, William,” he says. “You said you felt some pain in your arm?”

“I mean, juh-just some aching,” Bill says. “From all th-th-the-” he swings his arm in an awkward punching motion.

“Mhm,” the doctor says. “The fight you mentioned.”

Bill nods.

“Well, it looks like it did some damage,” the doctor continues. “You have a few pinched nerves in your upper arm.”

“Oh,” Bill says, continuing to nod as if he understands what he’s saying. “Oh no?”

“Oh no indeed.” If the doctor notices Bill’s confusion, he doesn’t say anything. “It looks pretty bad. You’ll need surgery-”

Bill blanches. “ _ Suh-Suh-Suh-Surgery _ ?”

The doctor nods. “The sooner the better. We have a spot today-”

“ _ Tuh-Tuh-Today _ ?”

“You could do another day,” the doctor says. “But there’s not much of a point of waiting. If it goes untreated, you’ll start to lose feeling in your arm. It’ll only get worse the longer-”

“Alright,” Bill says with a shudder. The word surgery sounds terrifying. A large part of him wants to check with his friends before making any rash decisions. But Richie had said the doctors were real, and Bill supposes his entire life being a fuck up doesn’t exempt him from getting injured. “I’ll call my puh-puh-parents, let them know.”

“Good,” says the doctor. “I promise it won’t take long. And you’ll be asleep the whole time, you won’t even know it’s happening.”

Bill nods, feeling like all the air has been sucked out of him. “Great. Guh-Guh-Good. I’ll - I’ll do it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright so I promised faster updates and that did not exactly happen, I'm sorry. But hopefully the next chapter won't take as long! Because the next chapter is when it will be revealed what the surgery is actually for, and I can't wait for you guys to find out.
> 
> Please leave comments and kudos and all that good stuff! I love hearing all your thoughts, every comment makes me smile. Thank you for reading!!


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And where is huh-here?” He gasps loudly, almost too loudly, judging by the way Stan frantically glances around them. “Is th-th-this outside? Off set?”
> 
> Stan nods. “It’s backstage, yes. But be quiet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for knives and violence

Bill wakes up in his own bed.

He doesn’t remember how he got there, he doesn’t even remember leaving the surgery. But his arm aches every time it moves, so he’s sure it wasn’t a dream.

If he strains, he can remember a little bit. He supposes it was the beginning, but honestly he can’t be too sure, it’s all too fuzzy. He remembers sleek, white walls closing in on him from all directions. He remembers a masked doctor peering down at him from above. And he remembers a grey-haired man. He was dressed in scrubs, but he didn’t look like a doctor. Which is, of course, ridiculous. Why would they allow a non-medical professional inside?

The losers visit him the next day, all wearing matching pinched expressions. They file in and squish on Bill’s too small bed, all curled up in various uncomfortable positions. It’s fine, for the most part. They tell him what he missed at school (Greta and her boyfriend broke up in front of the whole school. Richie got detention for talking too loudly in class. Ben missed lunch to avoid Bowers), they stay for dinner (complete with Richie trying to hand feed him every piece of food on his plate), and they all wish him a speedy recovery.

But something seems off.

Maybe it’s because Stan won’t stop looking at his arm. Maybe it’s because Ben’s grin is so wide it can’t possibly be real. Maybe it’s because Mike won’t look him in the eye. Maybe it’s because Richie has plastered himself to his side. Even after everyone else leaves, Richie buries his nose in Bill’s hair and just about begs him to let him stay the night.

He removes himself from Bill’s side long enough to change into pajamas and brush his teeth, but he’s back within five minutes. He dives right back underneath the blankets, tucking his head under Bill’s chin.

“Yuh-You alright, Rich?” Bill asks, lifting his good arm to card his fingers through Richie’s curls.

“Mhm,” Richie says, his breath tickling Bill’s throat. “I just feel bad.” He hesitates for a beat. “Your arm must hurt.”

“Just a little,” Bill admits. “It’s nuh-not too bad.”

Richie grunts.

“Go to sluh-sluh-sleep,” Bill murmurs. “It’s okay.”

“Not okay,” Richie mumbles.

Bill’s heart lurches.

_ You said it was okay. You told me it was okay. _

But he doesn’t voice these concerns. He doesn’t voice anything at all.

He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to pretend he didn’t hear Richie. Tries to pretend he’s not wondering if he made a very reckless, very stupid decision.

He doesn’t fall asleep though. There are too many things on his brain to even consider sleep an option. Of course he tries to. But it’s no use. All he can do is lay there and pretend like closing his eyes is actually helpful.

It’s so awful that when he starts to feel the gentle shake of someone trying to wake him up, the only emotion he can muster is relief.

He opens his eyes, hoping it isn’t obvious that he hasn’t slept a wink. Richie’s hovering above him, though he’s barely visible in the dark.

“Hey,” Richie murmurs. “You up for a midnight walk?”

Bill scrunches up his nose. “A walk? Are you sure that’s a guh-good idea?”

“Why wouldn’t it be? It’s not your leg that’s fucked up.”

“Don’t say it luh-like that,” Bill groans.

“Well then if it’s not fucked up, you can walk fine!”

Bill huffs out an exasperated breath. “Why are you so insistent on th-th-this?”

“Is it so out of character that I go on a romantic walk with my boyfriend?”

Bill levels him with a half-hearted glare, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

“Just c’mon,” begs Richie. “Please?”

Bill lets out an over exaggerated groan that’s more for performance than anything, but rolls out of bed all the same. Richie cheers as he tugs on his shoes.

“I promise it’ll be fun.”

“Can you promise it’ll be wuh-wuh-warm?”

“It’s not even that cold out!”

Bill brings an extra jacket anyway. He barely has time to get it on before Richie’s rushing him through the house and out the front door. And, because Bill’s a good boyfriend, he doesn’t point out that it is, in fact, cold out. He just wraps the jacket closer around himself and glares pointedly at Richie.

“Isn’t it a nice night?” Richie grins. “Perfect for a midnight stroll.”

“Sure,” Bill grumbles. “Real nice.”

At this time of night the streets all look the same to him. But Richie must have some sense of direction, because he walks through the streets with a purpose, swinging their interlocked hands between them as if this is the most casual thing in the world.

“Wh-Where are we going?” Bill asks, squinting his eyes as if that will do any good.

“Wherever you want,” Richie says.

“I wanna go home.”

Richie cackles, as if Bill has just cracked the greatest joke of all time. “C’mon, I know a great makeout spot.”

And who is Bill to argue with that?

Because even though he truly has no idea where his relationship with Richie stands, it is still an unarguable fact that Richie is a pretty damn good kisser. So who is Bill to turn him down?

The spot Richie chooses is incredibly secluded. Almost suffocatingly so, in fact. Bill doesn’t get much of a chance to admire the scenery, but he knows he’s being pushed into a back alley that can barely fit one person, let alone two, squished between a local nail shop and drycleaners. If he weren’t so sure Richie was on his side, he would be worried about getting murdered.

But, as it is, he’s not thinking about much of anything at the moment. Richie’s made sure of that.

He’s got Bill’s lower lip trapped between his teeth, sucking it into his mouth like it’s a lollipop, and how is Bill supposed to have any sort of control in a moment like that? It’s not until his back bumps abruptly into a wall that any of Bill’s scrambled thoughts come back to him.

They’re still not organized thoughts. Nothing like  _ shouldn’t this lead to the other side of the building _ ? But rather,  _ Richie likes it when I pull his hair _ .

So that’s exactly what he does. He weaves one of his hands through Richie’s curls, and runs his tongue along the seam of Richie’s lips, in the hopes of regaining some control.

Richie doesn’t let him have it long, and instead moves down to start mouthing at Bill’s neck.

Bill’s just opened his mouth, the words that maybe Richie was right for once on the tip of his tongue, when suddenly the wall gives way and he’s toppling backwards.

He lets out a yelp as he lands on his bad arm. “What the ff-fuh-fuck?”

“Sorry,” Richie says. “I’ll be right back.”

“Wh-” The door is slammed in his face. He leaps to his feet, desperately searching for a knob. But there’s nothing. He takes for pounding his fist against the door instead. “ _ Huh-Huh-Hey _ !  _ Richie!  _ Hey -  _ Mmph _ !”

He claws at the hand covering his mouth, though his blinding panic blankets any satisfaction he gets from the cry of pain his attacker lets out.

“Bill! Bill, stop that! It’s me!”

“Stuh-stuh-Stan?” Bill says, the word muffled by Stan’s palm.

“Mhm. You need to be quiet. No one can know we’re here.”

Bill carefully intertwines their fingers, pulling them away from his lips. “And where is huh-here?” He gasps loudly, almost too loudly, judging by the way Stan frantically glances around them. “Is th-th-this outside? Off set?”

Stan nods. “It’s backstage, yes. But  _ be quiet _ .”

Bill complies, putting a hand on each of Stan’s cheeks and pulling their faces as close together as they possibly can to still be heard. He hardly registers the pink blush that creeps up Stan’s neck.

“Thank you, thank you, th-th-thank you,” Bill whispers. A grin so wide it burns his cheeks stretches out across his face. “Stan, Stan, I love yuh-you so much. You, and Rich, and Ben, and Mike. Are Ben and Mike huh-here? Where’s Rich-”

“He’s covering his tracks. He can’t be seen disappearing with you. C’mon.”

Bill throws his arms around Stan’s neck, letting himself be half dragged through the building. “Thank you!”

“Don’t thank me yet,” grumbles Stan, though he hesitantly tucks an arm around Bill’s waist anyway.

Mike and Ben are waiting for them in an empty sound room. They’re tucked against the far wall, whispering fervently, and Bill’s so happy to see them that he almost misses the tarp spread out across the floor.

They grin wider than Bill’s ever seen and pull him into a bear hug, chattering so fast Bill can hardly understand them.

He catches glimpses of, “I’m so excited-”

“I can’t wait to show you-”

“You’re going to love-”

“I’m so sorry-”

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” Bill chants, like a prayer. Like it’s the only thing he knows. “I love yuh-yuh-you so much. I can’t believe - Don’t wuh-we have to be quiet?”

“It’s sound proof in here,” Ben says.

Bill lets out a scream in response. A happy, joyful scream, but a scream nonetheless. His friends just about leap out of their skin, but they look like they’re considering joining in.

“We’ve been waiting for this day for years,” Ben says.

Mike nods furiously, so much so that for a moment Bill worries his head will topple right off his shoulders. “I can’t believe it’s here already.”

“You’re gonna love it out here,” Ben says. “There’s this diner-”

“-Yes! We’ll have to take you there someday.”

“It’s so good.”

“And the world is so big, you’re not gonna believe it.”

“We’ll go on a road trip!”

“Yes!”

Bill lets out an overjoyed laugh at his friends’ enthusiasm. “Yes! Absolutely! Stan?”

Stan’s still hovering by the door, back stiff as a rod and fists clenched tight.

“Let’s not rush into anything,” he says, voice echoing with the slightest shake.

Bill hardly has time to process the words, let alone ask why, before the door is being thrown open again and Richie is rushing in, trailed by-

“Huh-Huh-Holy shit, you’re-”

“I’m here to help, get on the floor!”

A million questions run through Bill’s mind. But something about the stranger’s voice is so authoratitative, like a chihuahua demanding more dinner scraps from a happy family, that Bill can’t help but do what he says. He lays flat on his back against the tarp, biting back anymore questions as the stranger grabs his arm and starts to unravel the bandages.

“The surgery-”

“The duh-doctor said it was-”

“I  _ know _ what he said,” huffs the stranger. He doesn’t bother looking Bill’s direction. Bill doesn’t mind, he’s not sure he wants to know what he’s doing.

“Ruh-Right,” he murmurs.

“And, by the way,” the stranger continues, starting to rustle around in the fucking fanny packing he’s still wearing, “Pinched nerves is just about the dumbest excuse they could’ve come up with.” He must catch the way Bill tenses because he continues without Bill having to ask. “Your arm’s fine. Well, it was fine. Now it’s kinda fucked up. But we’ll fix it, don’t worry!”

“You’ll fix -  _ What the fff-fuh-fuh-fuck is that _ ?”

“ _ Why are you looking _ ?”

“I - Yuh-You didn’t - Wha - I duh-don’t -  _ Fuck- _ ”

He tries to tug his arm out of the stranger’s grip, but his fingers hold on tight like ten tiny vice grips.

“Bill! Fucking relax! It’s  _ fine _ !”

“Th-Th-Then  _ why _ are you threatening me wuh-with the world’s tuh-tuh-tiniest knife?”

“I am  _ not _ threatening you!” the stranger turns his glare on the rest of their friends. “Did you not tell him?”

“We hadn’t gotten around to it yet,” Ben squeaks out.

“You’re all in on this?” roars Bill.

“When you put it like that it sounds like we’re scheming against you,” Richie says, though even he sounds void of his usual humor.

“We’re trying to help you,” Mike insists. He drops to his knees next to Bill, threading their fingers together. He gives his hand a quick squeeze. “You can squeeze my hand if you need to, okay?

“I - What?”

“Richie!” the stranger says. “Give him your belt!”

“ _ What _ ? I don’t want huh-his belt!”

“It’s to bite down on,” Richie quickly explains, fumbling with his belt buckle.

Bill narrows his eyes at the stranger. “ _ What are you guh-going to do to me _ ?”

“It’s not my fault! They put a tracker in your arm-”

“ _ What _ ?”

“-and we only have, like, twenty minutes before it’s activated, so,” the stranger holds up the knife, a shaky smile on his lips. Bill thinks maybe it’s meant to make him feel better. It doesn’t. “We have to do a surgery of our own.”

“Here,” Richie scurries to Bill’s side, guiding the belt between his teeth. “Just try not to think about it too much.”

Bill sends Richie his best glare, putting as much heat behind it as he can muster. It must work, because Richie’s eyes cloud over with guilt. But it doesn’t do much else. Because, at the end of the day, Richie’s not the one who’s going to have a man he’s met once in a bathroom of all fucking places carve into his arm.

“Ready?” the stranger asks. The way his voice shakes doesn’t do much for Bill in terms of hope. But he nods anyway.

And then the knife goes in. It’s nothing like anything Bill’s experienced before. It’s sharp and cold and quite possibly the most painful experience of his life.

It’s all he can focus on.

That and the high pitched ringing bouncing around the room.

Except it’s not ringing. It’s screaming. He’s screaming.

Though he hardly recognizes it. His throat burns, his vocal chords threatening to give way, but the screams just keep coming.

And then there’s a pair of hands on either of his cheeks and a halo of curls hovering above him. He can see their lips moving. He thinks they’re talking to him. But he can’t hear them. He can’t fucking hear them.

The thought makes his eyes burn. Or maybe that’s the tears blurring his vision. Is that why he can’t see? Does he need to borrow Richie’s glasses?

Everything  _ hurts _ .

It’s not fair.

His throat burns from the screaming. His head aches from, again, the screaming. Even his fucking teeth hurt from biting into Richie’s stupid belt because of, yet again, the screaming.

Not to mention his eyes sting from the tears that won’t seem to stop. His back aches from how it keeps arching, only to slam back into the floor a moment later. His hand aches from squeezing Mike’s hand, their knuckles squishing against each other.

And his arm feels like it’s on fucking fire.

“Bill,” says a voice. It’s barely audible over his own screaming, and though it does little to calm his nerves, it lights a warm fire in the pit of his stomach. All he knows is he needs the voice to be closer. He needs to be surrounded by it. But it stays just out of reach. “Bill, you’re gonna be okay. You’re gonna be alright.” Fingers brush against his forehead, pushing stray strands of hair away from the sweat that drips there. “You’re gonna be alright. It’s almost done. You’re doing so well. You’re nearly finished. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

A heaving sob rips its way out of Bill’s throat.

And then everything goes white.

-

“Shit,” Stan hisses. “Eddie I think he blacked out!”

“It’s just the pain, he’s fine!” Eddie insists.

“ _ Just the pain _ ?” Stan screeches.

“Just - I’m almost done! He’ll be okay!”

Stan returns his attention to Bill, continuing to card his fingers through his hair. Stan’s sure it’s not doing much, doesn’t even know if Bill’s noticed, but there’s nothing else to be done.

It makes him sick to his stomach.

He hates seeing Bill like this, face burned red and soaked with his own tears. And the screams are something he’s sure he’ll remember in his nightmares for years to come. But the silence is almost worst.

Scratch that, the silence it absolutely worse.

Because now he can hear the squish of Bill’s flesh as Eddie replaces the knife with a pair of tweezers, pushing around for the tracker.

“That’s disgusting,” Richie says.

Richie and Ben, who promptly shushes him, are placed on either side of Eddie, working to hold down Bill’s thrashing arm. Ben has spent the entire time staring at the corner between the wall and the floor, but Richie, despite how white he’s gotten in the face, can’t seem to look away.

“Can you shut up,” Eddie hisses. “I’m trying to focus. If I fuck up-”

“Don’t!” Stan blurts out. “Don’t tell me what will happen. Just - Just don’t fuck up.”

He shares a quick glance with Mike. Mike who hasn’t said a word since they started. Mike whose bitten his lower lip red with worry. Mike who let’s Bill squeeze his hand until he nearly screams himself.

Stan wants to say something to him. Something to help comfort him. Or maybe something to help comfort himself.

But he can’t find the words. They stick in his throat, clogging his windpipe until he’s fighting to breathe. But Mike seems to understand. He offers Stan a grimace, not even trying to disguise it as a smile. And though Stan still feels sick with worry, it does help give him at least a second of relief.

“Billy, I don’t know if you can hear me, but it’s almost done. You’re gonna be okay” he whispers, because they’re the only words he knows. “Just a few more seconds, okay? Just hold on. You’re alright. You’re almost done. Eddie’s almost-”

“Got it!”

Stan heaves a sigh of relief as Eddie holds the object up between the tweezers.

Mike’s face twists into one of disgust. “Get rid of it.”

“Where?” Eddie glances around the room, as if he might find the answer there.

“Just throw it,” Richie says. “It doesn’t matter.”

“No! Give it to me. I’ll bury it somewhere,” Ben says. “It should buy us some time. I'll-" he casts a disdainful look towards the tarp. "I'll throw the tarp away too. We can't have that laying around."

Eddie nods and carefully drops the tracker into Ben’s hands. Ben looks like he’s considering being sick. But he pushes that urge down and instead clutches the tracker in a closed fist.

“Where are you gonna bury it?” Eddie asks as he starts to wrap Bill’s arm with fresh bandages.

“There’s a park not too far away,” Ben says. “I’ll drive over as soon as we’re done.”

“I think we should bury it on set,” Richie says. “Imagine their faces when they can’t find him anywhere.”

Eddie shakes his head. “That’s too suspicious. A wild goose chase is our best option.”

Stan sucks in a shaky breath. “And what about when that wild goose chase is over? What then? He can’t stay with us, they’ll search our houses.”

“Bev?” Richie suggests.

“No way,” Mike says. “Everyone will be suspicious of her. Not just Robert, but  _ everyone _ . As soon as they tell the world he’s missing, everyone’s eyes are going to turn to her.”

“Yeah, but she’s not part of the cast anymore,” Richie insists.

“Why does that matter?”

Richie shrugs rather pathetically. “I - I dunno.”

Eddie finishes tightening the bandages before speaking up, “He can stay with me.”

Richie’s head whips around, focusing on Eddie with a glare that could kill. “ _ No _ . No way.”

“It makes sense-”

“ _ How _ ?” Richie hisses. “How does it make sense? Your mom would give him up in a heartbeat.”

“She wouldn’t know,” Eddie snaps. “She never comes into my room. He can just stay there. And Robert loves me, he won’t suspect a thing.”

“I think that’s our best option,” Ben says.

“I agree,” says Mike. “Eddie’s the least suspicious.”

Richie looks pleadingly at Stan.

“Sorry, Rich,” Stan murmurs. “Eddie’s right.”

“Oh fuck you,” Richie huffs. “Fine. Whatever. But when your mom catches us because she wants to snoop through your room in the middle of the night, don’t blame me.”

“Sure, Richie,” Eddie says with a roll of the eyes. “C’mon, help me get him into the car.”

“I got it,” Mike says.

Stan scrambles away from where he’d been straddling Bill’s waist (he hadn’t thought about the position much at the time, but it makes him blush beet red now) and Mike scoops up their sleeping friend bridal style.

“I’m parked in the back,” Eddie says. “Behind the trees.”

“Your usual spot,” Mike says with a teasing smile. It still looks strained, but it manages to pull the world's tiniest smile out of Eddie anyway.

“Yeah,” he murmurs.

“Can’t believe you have a usual spot,” Richie chortles as they trail behind their friends. “You don’t even work here.”

“It’s hidden from the cameras, dimwit!” Eddie spits back.

Richie grins, throwing a casual arm around Eddie’s shoulders.

They fall silent once they exit the recording room. It’s unlikely anyone is within hearing distance, but it’s best to exercise caution. There’s a whole crew of people just to watch the cameras during the night. And while they usually stay holed up in their room, eyes glued to the screens on the off chance they get to capture something interesting, it isn’t impossible that one of them is roaming the halls. Especially now that they’ve surely noticed Bill’s disappearance.

But as soon as they’re free of the building, Richie’s, once again, opening his mouth. Eddie prepares himself for whatever shitty one-liner Richie’s prepared this time, already wracking his brain for a response.

But, “Be careful,” is what comes out of Richie’s mouth.

“ _ Oh _ ,” Eddie murmurs. “Yeah, of course. We’ll be fine. If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s hide things from my mother.”

Richie chokes out a laugh. “Yeah. Um - Is it still alright if I come over? Not - Not tonight. But, just, in general.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “Absolutely. You’re always welcome to stay over. And - um - I mean, I’m sure Bill would like that too. Ya know, he doesn’t know me or anything.”

“Yeah,” Richie says. “Yeah, Bill. That’s - That’s why I need to come over.”

“I’m serious!” Eddie insists, though he’s fighting back laughter. “He’d probably like to see a familiar face-”

“So am I!” Richie says. “It’s the perfect excuse to come over.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “You don’t need an excuse.”

A smile tugs at the corners of Richie’s mouth, and, just for a second, Eddie swears he sees his eyes dart down towards his lips. “I know.”

Eddie turns before Richie can catch sight of the pink that blotches his cheeks. “Good. I’ll see you at Bev’s tomorrow?”

“Mhm,” Richie says. “I’ll be there.”

Eddie nods. “Well, I should go. I’ll see you then.”

He’s across the parking lot before Richie can get another word out. He hurriedly thanks Mike, who has laid Bill down across the backseat, and practically launches himself into the driver’s seat. With his teeth half sunken into his bottom lip, he chances a glance into the backseat.

Richie’s right, taking Bill home is going to be risky. Riskier than Eddie would like. Not to mention, even if Richie does continue to come over, it throws a wrench in whatever it is going on between them. But there’s no doubt that it’s their best option.

Eddie starts the car, offering his friends a half-hearted wave as he maneuvers his way out of the parking lot. Now all he needs to do is get home without being seen. Easy, right? Right.

Except for the fact that the gates seem to have been closed.

“Fuck,” Eddie mumbles. He fumbles for his phone. All he needs to do is call Richie and ask him to use his keycard to open the gate. It should only take a few minutes, nothing Eddie can’t spare. Then, louder, “Fuck!” Because pacing in front of said fence, is the security guard.

So much for not being seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE'RE FREE BEANS! We have finally escaped the set. This is where shit's really gonna get interesting.
> 
> Also I recently posted a short reddie fic, it's called Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word, so please feel free to check that out! And speaking of fics, I have two I want to write but I figured I would ask you guys which you would want to see first. I'm thinking about either a stenbrough superhero au or a reddie kidfic au. If you have any thoughts, please leave them in the comments, I would really appreciate it!
> 
> Anyway, I hope you liked this chapter! Please comment and leave kudos, I love and cherish each and every one of them. Thank you for reading!!


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill wakes up feeling like he’s been hit by a car. His entire body aches and his arm - fuck, his arm - his arm feels like it’s been smashed by a particularly large hammer.
> 
> But, strangely, that’s not the most alarming part.
> 
> What really takes the cake is that he’s lying in an unfamiliar bed, staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling.

“Fuck. Shit. Oh my God. Fucking -  _ Fuck _ !”

Eddie fumbles in the backseat, fingers slipping as he tries to grasp at Bill’s shoulders. The other boy groans softly in his sleep and, even though he’s the only one in the car, the sound makes Eddie flinch.

“Just c’mon,” he mumbles. “You need to work with me here -  _ Shit _ !” Bill tumbles off the seats, landing in a heap on the floor. Eddie waits for a moment, half hoping he’ll wake up, but he stays fast asleep. “Sorry.”

He then hurriedly scrambles into the backseat himself, practically launching his upper body over the seats to peer into the trunk. It’s too dark to see much of anything, so Eddie has to rely on mostly feel. His hands fly over the backseat, flicking aside old pill bottles and crumpled prescription papers, until they finally land on what he wants.

An old fleece blanket.

He tosses it over his shoulder, doing his best to hide Bill’s form underneath. As soon as he’s sure he’s hidden well enough, he leans back into the trunk. Just in case there’s one more. You can’t ever be too prepared.

Unfortunately, his search is interrupted by the soft sound of someone rapping their knuckles against the glass.

“Shit,” Eddie hisses. He reaches to roll down the window, finger barely reaching the button. “Hi, there!” He says, grinning cheerily. “How can I help you?”

The guard squints at him. “What are you doing?”

“I - I’m just picking something up for my mom,” Eddie says. He grabs the nearest pill bottle, sighing softly when a few leftover pills rattle inside. “You know how forgetful she is.”

The guard has no idea how forgetful Sonia Kaspbrak is. He’s only ever met her in passing. So he can’t deny Eddie’s claims, but it also doesn’t particularly help his cause.

“Please step out of the car,” the guard says. “I need to search your vehicle.”

“Why?” Eddie asks. He drops the bottle onto the seat, so the pills inside won’t give away how his hands are shaking. “Is something wrong?”

“It’s procedure.”

“This has never been procedure before.”

“There was a breach in security.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

The guard sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “I don’t know, kid, that’s above my paygrade. I know that it, whatever it is, is being dealt with inside. I’m just here to make sure it stays contained. The specifics aren’t my concern, and they shouldn’t be yours either. So can I just look?” Eddie blinks at him slowly from where he’s seated, lips sealed tight. “Look, I can’t let you leave if you don’t let me search the car.”

A thin layer of ice pours through Eddie’s veins, freezing him from the inside out. He tries to shiver, tries to ward off the incoming cold. But all it does is make the ice slosh around inside. He’s still cold. He’s still frozen. He’s still trapped.

As much as he likes to think he’s given his mother the metaphorical bird in most parts of his life (sneaking Richie into his room, sneaking off to see Bev every weekend, driving above the speed limit), there are moments where he has to admit, with a twisted, sick feeling in his stomach, that she still has a hold on him.

This is one of those moments.

His fight or flight response is coming to a stuttering halt. Neither is a viable option. Which is where the lesser known, less desirable third option kicks in. Freeze.

Eddie hates to admit it, but freeze is the option his brain seems to pick the most. He can support Bev all he wants, but he can’t do anything to help. He can want Richie with all of his heart, but god forbid he act on it. He can resent his mother like she’s the devil, but showing it’s a different story.

He’s constantly stuck in the middle. Constantly floating in this gray area of nothingness. He keeps everyone happy. He doesn’t fight what upsets him. He doesn’t run from what hurts him. He smiles and waits for the pain to pass. He lets the ice take over his veins and hold him in place.

Now is just about the worst time to let that instinct take over.

He opens his mouth to tell the guard, well, he’s not sure what. He just hopes whatever he says doesn’t fuck him over too much.

What comes out is a startled squeak as another figure appears behind the guard.

“Mister Kaspbrak,” says Robert Gray. “What on earth are you doing here at this hour?”

“I was just picking something up,” Eddie says lamely, “for my mom. She - She forgot it.”

Robert cocks his head curiously. “I didn’t know your mother came in today.”

Eddie nods, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. “Just for a little bit. She left - Um - She left these.” He snatches the pill bottle off the chair, shoving it towards the two men. He lets out a dry laugh. “You know how she is.”

Robert hums softly. “Indeed I do. Then you should get these back to her as soon as possible. But, might I ask, why are you not in the driver’s seat?”

Eddie blinks dumbly at him. “I...I don’t know.” Fuck. No. He needs a better excuse. “I was just - I was just looking for these.” He rattles the pill bottle.

It’s a dumb excuse, would only barely convince his mother, but Robert nods slowly. “I see.”

“I just threw them back here when I found them,” Eddie says lamely. “But I wanted to show…” He trails off, realizing he doesn’t know the guard’s name. When the guard doesn’t offer one, Eddie gestures towards him awkwardly. “Ya know.”

“Yes. What exactly is going on here, Mister Swanson?”

“I have to search his car, Sir,” the guard - Mister Swanson - says. He’s far less confident now, scuffing his shoes against the dirt and refusing eye contact. Eddie would be smug if the situation weren’t so dire. “There’s been a breach in security.”

“So I heard,” Robert sighs. “That’s why I’m here. Though I don’t know what kind of breach could possibly happen at-” He squints at his watch. “-one twenty seven in the morning.”

Eddie perks up the littlest bit. “Do you know what happened?”

“Not yet,” Robert says. “I’ll get the run down as soon as I’m inside.”

“Oh then I don’t want to keep you waiting!” Eddie chirps, suddenly feeling a million times more confident. “It sounds important!”

“It better be,” Robert grumbles. And for a second Eddie sees a flash of the man his friends are so afraid of. But then he grins again, showing off a set of pearly white teeth. “You don’t linger too long, young man. You’ll make your mother sick with worry. And don’t forget to tell her I say hello!”

Eddie flashes a grin of his own. “I’ll be sure to remember that.” As soon as Robert’s gone, disappeared within the doors of the set, Eddie turns to the guard. “I need to get home fast. Wouldn’t want to make my mother worry, after all.”

Mister Swanson’s eyes dart nervously towards the door. “Yeah, alright.”

The guard flashes his light briefly through the car’s interior, just enough to claim he searched it, and ushers Eddie out without another word.

-

Bill wakes up feeling like he’s been hit by a car. His entire body aches and his arm -  _ fuck, his arm _ \- his arm feels like it’s been smashed by a particularly large hammer.

But, strangely, that’s not the most alarming part.

What really takes the cake is that he’s lying in an unfamiliar bed, staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling.

He pushes himself into a sitting position with his free arm, taking time to survey the room. The walls are a pristine hospital white. Against the far wall is a small table. The only things it holds are a handful of pill bottles, all lined up a perfectly straight row. And leaning against the door is a boy.

Or, more specifically, the stranger.

He’s not wearing a fanny pack anymore, but he is dressed in a pair of shorts and an over-large sweatshirt. His hair is also mused, as if he’d been running his hands through it.

“Hey,” he says. His voice startles Bill, as if he hadn’t considered the possibility that the stranger can see him as well.

“Why am I in yuh-your bedroom?” Bill asks. Which, as far as greetings go, is pretty bad. But, to be fair, it’s a question that needs to be answered. And needs to be answered fast.

“I mean, you couldn’t go back to your room.” The stranger laughs awkwardly. “It’s, ya know…”

“Right.”

“I’m Eddie!” the stranger says, like the thought only just occurred to him.

“Bill.”

“I know.” As soon as the words are out of the stranger’s - Eddie’s - mouth, he flushes a deep red. He scrambles to cover his tracks, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. When he can’t think of anything more to say, he repeats, softer, “I know.”

“You watched the show?” Bill asks. The words taste heavy in his mouth. Wrong.

Eddie nods. “Yeah.” He chuckles dryly. “It was my favorite show as a kid.”

Bill cocks his head curiously. “Really?”

He had never stopped to consider that the people watching the show were also  _ people _ .

“I didn’t really think of the implications at the time,” Eddie admits. Bill shrugs wordlessly, simply because he has no idea what to say. “I just remember thinking you were really cool. You were my first celebrity crush.” If possible, his cheeks flush darker. “Sorry.”

Bill can’t fight back a soft laugh. “It’s oh-okay.”

Eddie flashes him a smile, though he still looks like he wants to be swallowed alive.

“How duh-do you know...everyone?” Bill asks. He feels stiff and awkward, not sure if it’s the right thing to ask, but he desperately needs to say something. Because he’s sure silence is going to be so much more awkward than anything Eddie can say.

“My mom works as one of the writers,” Eddie says, eyes suddenly locked on his socked-feet like they’re the most interesting things in the world. “She’s good friends with the director so she’s been there since the beginning. And at first I thought it was, like, the coolest thing in the world. But then she wouldn’t let me be an actor and, eventually, the curtain was pulled back and suddenly it wasn’t so magical anymore.” He blinks, realizing he never actually answered Bill’s question. “But - Uh - We met on set.”

Bill nods awkwardly. “I met them on set too.”

A laugh bubbles out of Eddie’s throat. “I would have never guessed.”

Bill quickly decides he likes Eddie.

He’s small and nervous, but he’s easy to talk to. Which is vaguely surprising, seeing as the last person he befriended was Mike, and that was nearly three years ago.

But it feels like he and Eddie have been friends for years. After the initial awkwardness wears off, conversation flows much easier. Bill finds that Eddie’s funny and quick witted, and that he doesn’t judge him for the millions of questions he seems to have. Which is a definite plus.

“Thank you, by the way,” Bill says. “For telling me.”

“Oh!” Eddie’s since moved from the wall, choosing instead to lay across the bed at Bill’s feet. “Yeah. I - Uh - Sorry I scared you.” Bill shrugs. “We were originally gonna wait until you were 18, because then you can legally leave the show. But then, ya know, shit hit the fan and we had to improvise.”

Bill shuffles closer. “I can luh-leave? Legally?”

“Mhm,” Eddie nods. “But until then you have to lay low.”

“I can do that!” Bill says. “I-I’m good at that.”

A giggle breaks out of Eddie’s throat. “Are you?”

“Yes! I’m very subtle!”

“Like that time you beat Bowers to a bloody pulp?”

“That was  _ one _ time.”

“Very subtle.”

Bill chuckles, shaking his head slightly. “So does that mean I’m stuck here for the next few months?”

“Well, yeah,” Eddie admits. “But we can sneak out if we’re careful!”

And Bill, because he’s already sick of the white hospital walls, can’t stop himself from asking, “How soon?”

-

As it turns out,  _ soon _ is that night.

Eddie shakes him awake as soon as he’s sure his mother is asleep, and gestures silently towards his window. Outside and around the corner, is what Bill suspects must be Richie’s car. As Richie is sitting in the driver’s seat.

He grins widely, leaning out the window to slap his hands against the side of the truck. “Eyyy! There they are!”

“Richie, be quiet!” Eddie hisses. He rushes forward to shove his own palm over his friend’s mouth. “My mom might still hear you -  _ Ew _ ! Did you just lick me? You know I hate it when you do that!” Richie cackles loudly. “Stop that! Be quiet!” Eddie turns to Bill, his face pinched. “You see what he’s like off camera? He’s the fucking worst.”

“Awe, you love me,” Richie says with an exaggerated pout.

“Not anymore,” Eddie says, but he clambers into the back of the car anyway. Bill follows suit.

“This is a nice car, Rich,” he says.

“The nicest sketchy television stars can buy,” Richie crows.

Bill barks out a laugh, as Eddie rolls his eyes next to him. Richie’s very similar to how he’s always been. He’s always had a big personality, and if anything now it’s only more amplified. But it’s comforting. Everything else has been such a shock to his system. It’s nice to have something familiar to latch onto.

“Wh-Where are we going?” Bill asks.

Richie shoots him a curious look through the rearview mirror, a grin flickering on his lips. “You don’t know?”

“It’s a surprise!” Eddie says. He sounds exasperated, as if he’s already explained this one time too many, but there’s a certain amount of fondness in his voice too. It’s a strangely personal moment, making Bill feel like an outsider in his own life.

But it doesn’t last for long.

They turn the corner and suddenly Eddie’s rambling about some guy that hit his car there once, and Richie’s saying something about hitting his mom from the back, and Bill’s laughing, as if his entire world hasn’t been turned upside down. Eddie’s steaming next to him, arms crossed and nose scrunched up. Bill’s positive he’s about to lay into Richie as soon as they park.

But, strangely, he doesn’t. Instead his entire mood seems to do a 180. He bounds up to the front door, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he waits for Richie and Bill to join him. He’s grinning like a little kid on Christmas morning.

The elevator is broken, so they take the stairs up, and Eddie takes them two at a time. But he waits for them at every floor, practically vibrating from excitement.

“He’s like a chihuahua,” Richie says as Eddie, once more, sprints ahead of them. “He’s little, but everything else about him is huge.” He pauses, face suddenly flushing a deep crimson. “His emotions, I mean. Not like his dick or something. I haven’t seen his dick.”

“I wasn’t accusing yuh-you of seeing his dick,” Bill says, because he’s not quite sure how to respond to that.

Richie, for once in his life, seems flustered. He just nods along furiously and somehow turns an even darker shade of red when they reconnect with Eddie at the next floor.

“C’mon!” Eddie says, unaware of the previous conversation. “This is her floor!”

Bill shoots Richie a sideways glance. “Wh-Who’s floor?”

Richie just grins. “I guess you’ll have to wait and see.”

“C’mon!” Eddie shouts from down the hall. “Hurry up! No, don’t open the door yet -  _ Ben _ !”

“Sorry,” Bill hears Ben say. Though he sounds just as confused as Bill feels.

But Bill’s overwhelming love for Ben Hanscom easily trumps his confusion, and he manages to find himself wrapped in a bear hug within a matter of seconds.

“Ben!” he exclaims, face still buried in his friend’s shoulder. “Is th-th-this your apartment? Do you luh-live here?”

“No,” Ben says. “Well, sometimes. Come in!”

He drags Bill inside, leaving Richie and Eddie to shut the door.

The apartment is small, just one room, but it’s homey. There’s very little furniture. A pullout couch, a cheap TV, a small dining table, and a few mismatched chair. There’s a small kitchen as well, but it doesn’t look like it’s been used in a million years. In fact, the only food Bill can see is the takeout sprawled across the counter.

And lounging by said takeout, are Mike and Stan. They’re sharing a pack of french fries, Mike with one halfway to his mouth and Stan eating them with a fork like a monster.

“Hey!” Stan chirps. “You made it!”

Mike grins widely, offering Bill a french fry. “Has Richie spilled the beans yet?”

“Fuck off!” Richie says. “I am capable of keeping secrets, ya know!”

Mike scoffs.

“He hasn’t, actually,” Bill says. “But probably only b-b-because of Eddie.”

Eddie looks rather smug, reaching across the table for a french fry of his own.

“I would have been perfectly fine without Eddie!” Richie insists. “Thank you very much.”

“Yeah, like that time you told Ben about his surprise party,” Stan grumbles.

“That was  _ one _ time.”

“We’d been planning it for weeks! You knew it was a secret!”

“I was excited!”

“Guys!” Ben’s already sitting on the pullout couch, eyes locked on the screen. “It’s gonna start soon!”

Bill shoots Eddie a quizzical look. “This is wh-why you brought me here? To watch TV?”

Eddie’s grin only grows wider. “Just wait.”

Bill ends up squished between Stan and Mike on the pullout. Ben’s on Mike’s other side, watching the TV with rapt attention. Richie’s laying by Bill’s feet with Eddie beside him. They’re talking softly, seemingly paying more attention to each other than to the TV in front of them.

“So Ben doesn’t live here?” Bill asks, making sure to be quiet enough as to not interrupt the talk show host.

Stan furrows his eyebrows. “Why would you think that?”

“There’s a fuh-fuh-photo of him,” Bill says. He gestures half-heartedly to the photo hanging next to the pullout.

“Why would Ben have a framed photo of himself in his apartment?” Bill can tell Stan’s fighting back laughter, his shoulders shaking from the effort.

“Says the guy who eats french fries with a fucking fork!”

Stan lets out an offended noise. He looks like he’s about to start on a five minute lecture on just why eating french fries with a fork is the superior method, when something catches Bill’s attention.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the talk show host is saying, a Hollywood grin on his face. “Please welcome, Beverly Marsh!”

Bev looks exactly how Bill remembers her. Her hair is still the same fiery red, if just a bit longer now. She still smiles like she doesn’t have a care in the world. Her eyes still hold the same kindness they did as kids. It makes Bill want to melt.

But something’s different about her. It’s not bad, quite the opposite actually. But she looks so grown up. Even with all the similarities, it’s hard for Bill to remember this is the same girl.

The Bev he knew fixed her problems by throwing rocks at them. The Bev he knew smelled like cigarettes and pot. The Bev he knew sat by the water and cried because she didn’t know her place in the world.

The Bev he knew didn’t wear pencil skirts. She didn’t force a smile so wide she looked like plastic. And she definitely didn’t appear on talk shows.

“Thank you for having me,” she says. She sounds polite. Calm. Collected.

“Of course,” the talk host says. “You have an interesting show for us.”

Bev nods, that all-too-plastic smile still on her face. “That’s right. I’m here to talk about everyone’s favorite television sweetheart, William Denbrough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY Sorry it took me literally forever to update. But!! Beverly's finally going to be part of the story!!
> 
> Also, I have one more question for you guys. I know the original endgoal for this fic is stenbrough, but would everyone prefer I keep it that way or change it to stenbroughlon or maybe even hanbrough? I love all three ships and don't mind writing any of them, but I keep changing my mind about what would be best for this particularly fic. I think I mostly want to do one of the first two, because I don't want to just abandon Stan and I do really love stenbrough, but also I think Mike and Bill would be a cute direction for the story to go in.
> 
> Anyway, tell me your thoughts in the comments please! Thank you so much for reading!


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Let’s talk about Mister Gray. You’ve called him more than a few unfriendly names-”
> 
> “And he deserves every single one of them. If there’s one person worthy of being called a [Redacted] Dirty Squealing [Redacted] [Redacted]-Head Capitalist Pig, it’s Robert Gray.”
> 
> The Host blinks, clearly taken aback.
> 
> But from Bill’s place, curled up on Bev’s pullout couch, all he can do is grin. He’s grinning so wide he thinks his face might split in half. But, even if it did, he thinks it might be alright. Because this is the Bev he remembers. This is the Bev he’s been missing. And she’s there for him.

_ “As I’m sure most of you know by now, Beverly here is the face of the  _ Free Denbrough _ campaign. Starting with just her instagram and passion, she’s managed to gather a massive following. It’s simply just astonishing.” _

_ Bev laughs politely. “Well, luckily, I already had quite the following from my years as an actress. A large portion of them dropped me after I started my campaign, but there are some that have stood by me since the beginning, and I’m really grateful for them.” _

_ “Right, because you used to be on the show,” the host says. When Bev nods, he continues, “What pushed you to start this movement?” _

_ “When I was let go,” Bev says, speaking slowly, as if the words physically pain her, “it was absolutely the worst day of my life. But not because I had lost my job, because I had lost my friend. One of the best friends of my life. And not only Bill. By contract, I’m not allowed to contact any of the actors currently on the show.” _

_ “Yikes.” The host winces overdramatically. “That seems a bit harsh.” _

_ Bev offers him a stiff smile, the same she used to give Bowers before throwing her newest insult at him. “Robert Gray doesn’t want me getting into their heads.” _

_ “Let’s talk about Mister Gray. You’ve called him more than a few unfriendly names-” _

_ “And he deserves every single one of them. If there’s one person worthy of being called a _ [Redacted] _ Dirty Squealing  _ [Redacted] [Redacted] _ -Head Capitalist Pig, it’s Robert Gray.” _

_ The Host blinks, clearly taken aback. _

But from Bill’s place, curled up on Bev’s pullout couch, all he can do is grin. He’s grinning so wide he thinks his face might split in half. But, even if it did, he thinks it might be alright. Because this is the Bev he remembers. This is the Bev he’s been missing. And she’s there for him.

_ “ _ Oh _ .” The host shifts uncomfortably. “Well-” _

_ “Robert Gray is the most unethical man I’ve ever met in my life. He-” Bev seems to catch herself, realizing she’s about to go off on a tangent. She forces the plastic smile back onto her face. “The show teeters on illegal. This shouldn’t come as a shock to anyone, but Robert’s so good at covering up  _ everything _ , that nobody cares to look deeper into  _ anything _ .” _

_ “Interesting.” The talk show host has relaxed back into his seat now that Bev’s smiling again. “Do you think you’ve had any part in the show’s…” the host struggles to find the world. “Cancelation, shall we say?” _

Bill shoots Stan a curious glance. “The show was cancelled?”

“Not officially,” Stan says. “But they don’t have anything to show without you there. So if you try to watch, it’s just static.”

“People are loosing their fucking minds,” Richie adds with a chuckle. “You should see what people are saying.”

Stan reaches out to kick him. “Shut up and watch the show.”

_ On screen, Bev forces a laugh. “I would like to think so. But I’m sure if it was, Robert would have made that very clear. He’s never missed an opportunity to tell the world how badly I’ve fu - sorry - messed up before.” _

_ The host chuckles. “Yes, I’m sure we all remember the debacle of 2016.” _

Bill leans into Stan, whispering soft enough not to disrupt Ben, who seems to be hanging on each word Bev utters. “Wh-What happened in 2016?”

Stan sighs softly. “It was awful. Right after she got fired, her and Rich went out to lunch. That night they both got a call from Robert, explaining the new ground rules.”

“Don’t talk to each other?”

“Right. Richie had to beg to keep his job. The rest of us were terrified, all sure we were gonna be the next to go.” Stan shrugs, and pointedly avoids looking Bill in the eye. “I think that’s when it all really sank in. What we were doing.”

Bill can feel Stan starting to shake, a nervous habit he’s picked up over the years. And if there’s one thing Bill hates, it’s Stan being upset, so he quickly nestles his head in the crook of his neck, shuffling closer to press their bodies together. For a second Stan tenses, and Bill considers pulling away, maybe even apologizing. But then Stan’s dropping his head on top of Bill’s and everything seems to stop.

“I’m glad yuh-you realized,” Bill murmurs.

“Me too.”

Bill tries to concentrate on the TV because Bev’s his friend and what she’s saying is important, but everything’s fuzzy. It’s not uncommon for his brain to feel a little behind when he’s with Stan, they’re good friends. But they’re not usually so close together. It’s not usually this bad. He can see Bev talking on screen, that plastic smile still on her face, but he has no idea what she’s saying.

He opens his mouth to ask Stan to repeat it, because maybe then it’ll make more sense, but what comes out instead is, “Sorry I yuh-yelled at you. In the bathroom.”

“Oh,” murmurs Stan, his voice soft. “It’s okay.”

“It’s nuh-not! I-”

“Guys,” Mike says, making Bill nearly jump out of his skin. “I’m glad you’re talking about this, but I can hear every word of your conversation.”

“Yeah, we don’t wanna know your shit!” Richie cries out.

Stan narrows his eyes. “Shut up, Richie!”

“I just meant it sounded private,” Mike says with a roll of his eyes.

“You can talk by the kitchen island if you want,” Ben suggests. “You can still see the TV from there.”

“You can see the TV from anywhere,” Richie says.

But, in the end, Bill and Stan pick the kitchen counter. Not that there were very many other options in the first place.

“I am really suh-suh-sorry about the bathroom,” Bill murmurs. He feels cold now, without Stan’s body pressed up against his. But Stan’s returned to picking through the packet of fries with his fork, though he’s not actually eating any of them. It’s not like Bill can casually sidle up next to him.

“It’s okay,” Stan says. “You were scared.”

“But - You were scared too.”

Stan nods jerkily. “I mean, yeah. Because you had the-” he stops suddenly, his head snapping up to fix Bill with a hard stare. “Why did you have scissors?”

“I th-thought you might be a murderer.”

“You thought  _ I _ was a murderer?”

“Well not  _ you _ !” Bill insists. “Buh-But when you were knocking-”

“You thought a murderer was going to knock?”

“It made more sense in my head.”

A grin breaks out across Stan’s face. He shakes his head, as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing, and for a moment Bill is captivated by the way his curls bounce from side to side.

Then Stan’s yelling, “Richie! Stop that!” and the spell is broken.

“What?” Richie cries out. “I’m not doing anything!”

“You’re staring at me!”

“So now I’m not allowed to look at you?”

“Absolutely not!”

Stan huffs and ducks down behind the island, situating himself so he’s sitting with his back against it. Bill follows suit, sliding down so they’re arm-to-arm, thigh-to-thigh.

“Richie’s annoying,” Stan says. “Um - But it’s fine, Bill. Really.”

“Wuh-Was Robert mad?” Bill asks. Stan doesn’t say anything for what feels like years, but Bill’s sure he heard him. He’s toying with the ends of his cardigan sleeves, tugging them over his hands before letting them bounce back into place.

“Yeah,” Stan murmurs. “But - But it’s fine. It’s fine now, I mean.”

Bill gets the feeling that is most definitely  _ not _ fine now, but he doesn’t comment. He doesn’t know if he has the emotional capacity to continue thinking about that night. Just the thought of Stan’s face red with tears has his stomach churning.

“Do yuh-you remember when I got in that fight with Bowers,” Bill whispers, “And then, a few days later, Richie couldn’t go to school because  _ he _ had gotten in a fuh-fuh-fight with them. Is that what ruh-really happened?”

“Yeah,” Stan says. “Sort of. I mean, he was supposed to get in a fight with them to  _ ‘defend your honor’ _ or whatever.” Stan chuckles dryly. “It was part of the script. But then he got pissed about it for real and the fight happened backstage. Robert wasn’t very happy about that.”

Bill hums softly. “I’ll have to tell him thank you later.”

“I’m sure he knows.”

“So I guess Buh-Buh-Bowers and his gang are assholes in real life too?”

“Yeah,” Stan sighs. “I mean, they did sign a contract agreeing to make your life hell for who knows how long. But they have whole other personas for interviews and stuff. So everyone thinks we’re all buddy-buddy behind the scenes.”

Bill wrinkles his nose. “What a bitch.”

Stan lets out a bark of laughter. “Yeah, you could say that again. Bev’s said a couple times that they’re terrible people. But a lot of people don’t believe her.” Stan shrugs. “People believe what they want to believe.”

“Yuh-Yuh-Yeah,” murmurs Bill.

In the background, he can hear the television host bidding everyone goodnight. But, louder, he can hear Richie and Eddie bickering. Something about Richie threatening to fuck Eddie’s mom, followed by Eddie insisting that he’s disgusting. This, of course, leads to both Mike and Ben whining at them to just “ _ shut up for once in their god damn lives _ .”

“Is Eddie Richie’s buh-boyfriend?” Bill asks, arching an eyebrow.

The question seems to confuse Stan, who frowns deeply. “Bill, Richie’s  _ your _ boyfriend.”

“Yeah, but not, luh-like, for real,” Bill says. “It was his juh-job.”

“Yes, like, for real!” Stan insists, though he refuses to meet Bill’s eye. “It might’ve been his job, but it was real to you. Richie didn’t want to cheat on you. He’s an asshole, but he’s not a bad guy.”

“Yeah,” Bill murmurs. “I guess I just haven’t had much time to think about relationships lately.”

“That’s alright,” Stan says. He tugs gently on the sleeves of his cardigan again. “Rich understands. You’ve been through a lot the past few weeks.”

“Stop that.” Bill gently pulls Stan’s sleeves from between his fingers. “You’ll stuh-stuh-stretch your shirt out.” He chuckles gently. “You always complain about it, but it’s your own damn fuh-fault.”

Stan blinks at him, lips parted and cheeks pink. It makes Bill’s own cheeks gather a warm glow.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “I just - I know you d-duh-don’t like it.”

“I - Yeah. Thank you,” Stan says. “I - Uh - Yeah.”

Bill clears his throat. “Tell me, Stanley, anyone s-s-spuh-special in your life?”

Stan hums softly, letting his head fall back against the kitchen island with a soft  _ thunk _ . “Not currently.”

That sends a jolt of electricity through Bill’s veins. It’s strange, but it’s only because Stan’s his friend. He’s just surprised no one’s snatched him up yet.

“No?”

“No,” Stan says. “But - But I think there’s someone I would like to get to know better.”

“Oh?” Bill tries to ignore how his stomach drops, because that surely can’t be normal.

“Mhm,” Stan nods. Then, “Did you know Richie wasn’t originally supposed to be the one playing your boyfriend?”

Bill leans forward minutely. “Really?”

Stan nods again, his gaze fixed somewhere beneath Bill’s eyes.

“Duh-Do I have something on my face?” Bill asks.

Stan’s eyes snap up. “No! You’re good. I just - Nevermind.”

Stan’s lower lip has somehow wormed its way between his teeth, and Bill’s finding it impossible to look away. It’s turning red and swollen, and for a second Bill has the overwhelming urge to sooth it with his own tongue. But that’s ridiculous, so he forces his eyes to look away and says, “Who wuh-was it?”

Stan opens his mouth, the answer on the tip of his tongue, when the front door is thrown open with a graceless  _ slam _ .

“That,” Bev’s voice echoes throughout the apartment, “Was awful.”

“You did amazing!” Ben insists.

“Yeah, if I wasn’t on your side already, you would have snatched my pussy with that interview.”

“ _ Ew, Richie! _ ”

Bev sighs heavily. “Thank you, love. But the host was just a nightmare. He clearly just needed someone to fill the time slot. And did you see how pissed he would get if I actually tried to get into it? Like, does he even know what activism is? Where’s Stan?”

“He’s around,” Mike says.

“I’m sorry your evening was so bad,” murmurs Ben. “But you did  _ amazing _ . And, we have a surprise for you!”

“A surprise?”

“Mhm!”

“I guess that’s our cue,” Stan whispers, breath hot against Bill’s face.

It’s only then that Bill realizes he’s been frozen mere centimeters away from Stan’s face this entire time, and he quickly pulls away before his cheeks can grow too hot. He follows Stan to his feet, and immediately has to grip the island for support because  _ holy shit _ . He hasn’t seen Bev in three fucking years, hasn’t heard a word from her since she left the show (despite how he begged her to write), and now she’s three fucking feet away. And she still looks as beautiful and fiery as ever. She’s since changed out of her interview outfit, switching it out for a pair of ripped jeans and loose T-Shirt that’s so much more  _ her _ .

It’s all so overwhelming, Bill has no idea what to fucking do.

“ _ Holy shit _ ,” Bev whispers. And then he has an armful of Beverly, her own arms snaking around his shoulders as she hugs him so tight he thinks he might pop. “Holy shit. Holy fuck. How the fuck are you here? I’m - holy fucking shit - Oh my God. What are you doing here? How did you get here? What the fuck? What the fuck?”

“Let him breathe,” Eddie says, leaning across the island to smack at Bev’s arm. “You’re gonna suffocate him.”

Bev pulls back, cupping Bill’s face between her hands. Her eyes are glassy with tears, and Bill’s sure his are no different. “I’ve missed you so fucking much.”

“Yuh-Yuh-Yeah,” Bill chokes out. “I’ve missed you too.” Bev wipes his tears away with her thumbs, which only makes him cry harder. “Thank you. F-Fuh-For everything.”

“Of course,” Bev whispers. “I’m really glad you’re out. Holy shit, how long have you been out?” Bev asks, before wheeling around on the rest of their friends. “Why did none of you tell me?”

“It’s only been a day, Bev,” Ben says with a soft chuckle.

“Benjamin Hanscom, you’re lucky I love you.” Bev leans over to peck his lips, before moving on to scour the food strewn about the island.

“We wanted to surprise you,” Ben says. “And I didn’t want to distract from your interview.”

“I know, love,” Bev grins. “I’m not mad, I promise.” She kisses him again, quickly. “Thank you.”

Bill glances over to Stan, who offers him a grin of his own.

“They’re good for each other,” Stan says.

He reaches for his fork again, but Bill knocks it out of his hand.

“Use your fuh-fingers, idiot,” he says with a shake of the head.

Stan purses his lips. His fingers flex as he fights the urge to snatch his fork back. “They’ll get grease on them!”

“That’s half the joy of french fries!” Richie cries out.

“So, Bev,” Bill says, before Stan can retort. He gestures vaguely between her and Ben. “Huh-How?”

Bev shrugs. “It just sort of happened. It was a little over a year ago, my platform was just starting to get  _ really _ big. Big enough to worry Robert-” Richie whoops. “Thank you. Ben started coming over more and more, helping me figure out what to say and telling me the inside scoop. I mean, of course everyone was helpful. But Ben was always there for me.” There’s a small smile pulling at her lips as she speaks, an undeniable joy that spreads like wildfire across her face. First her smile, then a sparkle in her eyes, then a pink blush on her cheeks. Which sure is something, because Beverly Marsh doesn’t blush.

“That’s cute,” Bill smiles. “I’m really happy for you guh-guys.”

Bev reaches over to squeeze his shoulder. “Thank you. Now c’mon,” she gestures wildly at the food in front of her, “eat something! Have you tried the fries? They’re the fucking best. Here-” She shoves a french fry into Bill’s mouth.

“ _ Mmf _ !  _ Mm _ , thank you.” Bill takes a moment to chew the fry, doing his best to ignore Bev’s watchful stare. “It’s good. Even buh-better because you were staring at me the whole time.”

“I wanted to know if you would like it-”

“I would have tuh-told you even if you weren’t staring at me - Stan! Stuh-Stop that!”

“Give me back my fork!”

“Nuh-No! Eat it like a normal p-puh-person!”

Stan shoots forward like a bullet, nearly sending Bill toppling to the floor. One hand wraps around Bill’s wrist, making his skin burn, while the other reaches out to snatch the fork from between Bill’s fingers. He gives Bill’s arm one harsh tug and Bill lets the fork clatter to the floor with a pained yelp.

“ _ Shit _ ,” Stan hisses. “Sorry.”

He takes a step back and as much as Bill immediately wants to pull him closer again, he’s a little preoccupied trying to focus on literally  _ anything _ other than the pain spurting up his arm.

Eddie’s at his side in a minute, gentle fingers tugging Bill’s sleeve up his arm to inspect the bandages.

“We should change these,” he says. “C’mon.”

he pulls Bill into the bathroom - giving him about a million war flashbacks - and shuffles his way through his fanny pack.

“Do you ah-always wear that thing?” Bill asks, his good hand still clutching his injured one in a vice-like grip.

“It’s practical!” Eddie snaps. “How else am I supposed to get these here?” He brandishes the bandages fiercely.

“We cuh-could’ve just changed them when we got huh-home.”

“I don’t know how late that will be! Just - stay still.”

Bill does his best not to squirm as Eddie unwraps the bandages. The skin is itchy and irritated underneath, and the only reason Bill doesn’t move to itch it, is the threat of Eddie’s bitch stare. The cut itself is still a nasty dark red. It’s not bleeding anymore, but it still makes Bill’s stomach churn and he has to avert his gaze before the french fries end up all over Bev’s floor.

“Just a few more minutes,” Eddie murmurs, clearly sensing Bill’s anxiety. He tightens the fresh bandages and then, seemingly on impulse, leans down to lightly kiss the injured area. Only to scramble backwards, face red and mortified, a moment later. “Shit, sorry.”

“I luh-love you too, Eddie,” Bill deadpans.

“Stop that!” Eddie fumes. “It was just a reflex. I’m always having to patch Richie up - Not that I’m kissing Richie! Just -  _ Fuck _ \-  _ Nevermind _ !”

He flings the door open and storms out, moving to pout by the island instead.

“What’d you do to him?” Mike asks, quirking an eyebrow in Bill’s direction.

“Nothing!” Bill insists, though it doesn’t take a genius to tell he’s trying his hardest not to laugh. He moves back to Stan’s side, who’s watching him warily.

“Feel better?” Stan murmurs.

Bill nods. “Thank you.”

“I can’t fucking believe Robert actually went through with that fucking surgery,” Bev huffs. “I thought he was insane when he first brought it up, and I think he’s insane now. What kind of psycho-”

“Huh-Hey,” Bill says, reaching over to firmly grasp her shoulder. “It’s fine now. I’m fine now.”

“Yeah, thank God,” Bev murmurs. “How did you find out, anyway?” When Bill cocks his head curiously she continues, “Ben said - when Eddie was changing your bandages - he said that you already knew.”

“Oh!” Says Bill. “Well Eddie-” He stops dead in his tracks, seeing Eddie’s wide eyed, pleading look. The words feel stuck, lodged in his throat with no way out. This isn’t right. Eddie should be happy. Shouldn’t he? “-told me,” Bill finishes lamely.

The room is suddenly deathly quiet. Even though every pair of eyes is on Eddie, Bill can’t help but feel like someone’s casted a massive spotlight on him. He wants nothing more than to sink into the floor and disappear forever.

“Eds,” murmurs Richie. “What-” He stops himself, seemingly unable to figure out what it is he wants to say. He looks as if he expects Eddie to answer anyway, but Eddie remains closed lipped. He won’t even look him in the eye. He won’t look anyone in the eye.

“Why?” Mike finally says.

Eddie shrugs. “I dunno. I just - I dunno. I felt...bad.”

Mike quirks an eyebrow. “Bad?”

“Mhm,” Eddie nods.

“Oh bullshit!” Stan’s voice cuts through the air, making Eddie just about jump out of his skin. “You were just jealous!”

“I was  _ not- _ ”

“Can it! We all know! For fuck’s sake, even Bill could tell!”

“You don’t know  _ shit _ !” Eddie fumes.

“I know we had to figure everything out  _ months _ before we were ready!” Stan snaps. “I know this is the only reason Robert moved the date of the surgery forward-”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t the only jealous one!” Eddie snarls.

Stan’s eyes widen microscopically. For a second Bill thinks Eddie’s managed to shut him down. His cheeks are burnt pink and his hands are clenched into fists at his side. Bill wants to reach out and sooth them before he can hurt himself, but Stan looks ready to snap at any minute, and Bill doesn’t think he wants to be on the receiving end.

Then, “I didn’t put everything we’ve worked for in jeopardy,” Stan says.

Eddie gapes at him. “I didn’t - I wasn’t - I - I just-” He glances helplessly around the room, but no one’s willing to offer an olive branch. He takes a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut to try and will back the tears prickling behind his eyelids. “I just wanted to help.”

He’s gone with a slam of the door, leaving the Losers one member short.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wowie look who finally updated. Me. The fool herself. And this fool has literally been so excited to write this chapter for so long, all the Losers are finally together!!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who commented their thoughts last chapter, I am going to keep this story stenbrough centered. I love them so fucking much and I'm really excited to write about them.
> 
> Lastly, my friend and I decided to co-write a fanfic and the only reason I'm posting about it here is bc my friend whom I love bullied me into it...it's a very chaotic fic. It's mostly a joke. It's a crossover between IT and BNHA. I'm writing the BNHA parts, except I don't know anything about BNHA, and my friend's writing the IT parts, even though she doesn't know anything about IT. Anyway, that's something that exists now. It's called "When World's Collide" by Jean_Man so...yeah..
> 
> ANYWAY thank you so much for reading!! Please let me know your thoughts, I love hearing them all!


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The drive back to Eddie’s is awful.
> 
> No one says a word the entire time, despite how obviously desperate Richie is to talk. He opens his mouth a few times, the words just on the tip of his tongue, but all it takes is one glance at Eddie in the rearview mirror and he’s back to the silent treatment.

The slam of the door echoes throughout the apartment like a slap in the face. It’s shocking, it’s painful, and the sting lingers long afterwards.

For awhile it’s quiet. No one knows what to say. It’s been a long time since they’ve gotten in a fight like that, which only makes the pain and confusion of it double down.

Then, “We should go after him,” Mike says.

“I’ll go,” Richie hurriedly offers.

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Stan says, cautiously. “Maybe someone else should go.”

Richie stares at him. It’s impossible to read his expression, but it fills the room with an icy sort of dread. Stan must feel the worst of it because he shrinks back, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists.

“Fine,” he mutters. “Whatever.”

Richie narrows his eyes. “I don’t need your - Fuck it, it doesn’t matter.”

He storms out without another word, which doesn’t make anyone feel any more confident about the situation.

Stan’s eyes are glassy, and Bev gently rests her head on his shoulder. She doesn’t say a word, but it’s still a sweet gesture. Bill can see Stan’s shoulders visibly relax.

Bill wants to join her, wants to pull Stan into his arms and tell him that everything’s going to be okay. But he can’t. Because Richie and Eddie are gone, open and vulnerable, and Bill has no idea if they’re going to be okay. It fills him with a nauseating sense of dread.

So comforting will have to wait until they’re all back together again.

He crosses the apartment in four long strides.

It’s silent while he’s walking, like his remaining friends can’t quite figure out what he’s doing. Then he throws the door open and everyone dissolves into chaos. They’re all yelling, begging him to come back in. It’s too easy to be spotted, it’s too dangerous, too risky.

“I’ll be fine,” he says flippantly.

He doesn’t wait for another response. He’s halfway down the first flight of stairs before his friends fully realize he’s gone.

Richie’s not too far, still visible in the darkness, and it only takes a short jog to catch up with him.

“You didn’t have to come,” Richie says.

Bill shrugs. “It’s Eddie.”

Richie seems to accept this argument because he doesn’t say another word for the rest of the walk. It would be peaceful, Bill thinks, if it weren’t terrifying. LA at night in itself isn’t too bad, but each step he takes only makes his stomach churn more and more.

Finally, “Eddie!” Richie cries out.

He bolts across the street without waiting to see if Bill is following. But he doesn’t check to see if there are cars either, so Bill doesn’t feel particularly offended.

Bill follows after, actually checking to see if there are cars barrelling down the neighborhood road.

“Eds, c’mon,” Richie’s saying. “You can’t walk home.”

“I’ll get an Uber,” Eddie says without looking at him. Bill makes a mental note to ask what an Uber is later, but figures now is a bad time to speak up.

“You hate Uber,” Richie argues. “Do you even have an account?”

“I - I could get one.”

“ _ Oh my God _ . Just let me drive you home, at  _ least _ .”

“Fuck off, Richie,” Eddie snarls.

He’s turning away, ready to continue walking, and Bill can  _ feel _ the panic radiating off Richie. Eddie’s barely gotten two steps before Richie reaches forward to grab his arm. He spins him back around, grasping his shoulders between desperate fingers, and forces him to look deep into his eyes.

“Stan didn’t mean what he said,” Richie murmurs. “He was just - He’s just upset. If you just talk to him-”

“I don’t want to talk to him,” Eddie hisses. “And he certainly doesn’t want to talk to me.”

“You don’t know that.”

Richie’s voice is soft, like freshly washed bed sheets. That alone makes the moment feel intimate and private, and Bill considers turning and leaving them alone. But it’s dark and there’s nowhere to go, so Bill chooses to stay and hope he doesn’t get in the way too much.

“Really? Then what does he want to talk about? How badly I’ve fucked up? How I should’ve waited to go along with your dumb fucking plan? Well, I’ve got news. I can’t fucking change it now! So  _ maybe _ Stan should stop fucking whining about it!”

“Eds, I get why you’re upset. But he-”

“Oh, save it, Tozier. I know whose side you’re on.”

“It’s not about sides, Eddie!”

Richie doesn’t sound soft anymore. He sounds pissed off. He sounds like he’s just been told he’s failed his math exam and, no, there’s no retakes.

Bill figures this is a good time to step in. So he does, quite literally. He steps directly between Richie and Eddie, half-glancing at Richie as he takes Eddie’s hands in his own.

“Guh-Give us a moment, Rich.”

Richie grumbles softly, but does as he’s asked. He backs up a few feet, enough to give them quiet and privacy if they whisper, but Richie’s eyes watch them the whole time.

“ _ I’m _ glad you told me,” Bill murmurs.

“Well of course  _ you _ are,” Eddie huffs. “Without me your face would still be plastered on every TV in America.”

Bill hums quietly. “Yeah, but also I ww-wuh-wouldn’t have to worry about all this. Knowledge is p-p-power, but information is a curse.”

Eddie glances at him curiously. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“It mm-muh-means, that, if you hadn’t told me, I would still be thinking my life was normal. That I could gg-gruh-grow up to have a normal office job and a normal family. That I wouldn’t be someone who huh-huh-has to worry about some psycho director chasing him down. I’ll never have that back. But, even then, I’m glad you told me. I can’t luh-live a lie. And, besides,” he adds, his voice teasing, “I’m still alive, so you can’t be too hard on yourself.”

“But your arm,” Eddie moans. “I-”

“You can’t ss-suh-seriously be bluh-bluh-blaming yourself for that.”

“I can, and I will!”

That makes Bill crack a small smile. Just a little one, because none of this is really over, but Eddie’s laughing so he must be doing  _ something _ right.

“Th-They’ll come around,” Bill promises.

Eddie silently kicks a loose pebble across the sidewalk. “I guess. I just - Oh, what the  _ fuck _ !”

Bill follows Eddie’s gaze, not that it’s hard to figure out what he’s looking at. Richie’s still waiting for them, just out of ear shot, only he’s not alone anymore.

A teenage girl is practically hanging off his arm. She’s got a smile a mile wide as they pose for a photo. Bill would laugh, because Richie’s doing one of those dumb bunny ear poses over the girl’s head, but Eddie looks like he’s ready to combust and Bill doesn’t want to be the one to push him any farther.

“Mm-Muh-Maybe they’re friends?” Bill suggests weakly.

“Oh, don’t be stupid,” Eddie bites back. “She’s obviously a fan.”

She is, quite obviously, a fan. She clearly doesn’t want to leave, continuing to find new conversation topics once she’s finished the picture. Richie’s a good actor. Because, despite how stressed he had been merely a few minutes ago, he’s got a huge, casual grin on his face now and talks as if he has all the time in the world.

“He’s such a fucking asshole,” Eddie grumbles.

“He’s juh-just being polite.”

The only answer Eddie offers is a huff and a swift turn as he continues to march down the road.

“Wh-Wait!” Bill blurts.

“Holy shit, is that-”

“No! It’s - Uh - It’s his stunt double,” Bill can hear Richie saying, and he quickly ducks his head to avoid the girl’s line of sight.  _ Fuck _ . “I gotta - I gotta go. Nice to meet you!”

Richie’s at his side a moment later, one hand wrapped tightly around Bill’s wrist.

“Eds!” he calls out, tugging Bill down the sidewalk at an impossibly fast pace.

“How many fucking times do I have to tell you-”

“We have to go,” Richie says, fighting to keep his voice quiet. “C’mon, just let me drive you home.”

Eddie doesn’t answer. It takes Bill a moment to realize he’s looking at Richie’s hand on his wrist. He immediately wants to pull away, to step back and let them deal with this - whatever  _ this _ is - on their own. But Richie hasn’t noticed and he continues to hold on tight, Bill couldn’t get away if he wanted to.

He has to admit it’s comforting, he’s used to Richie’s hand in his. But he doesn’t think he’s ever looked at him like Eddie does, which is something he’ll have to evaluate later.

“Fine,” Eddie mutters.

The drive back to Eddie’s is awful.

No one says a word the entire time, despite how obviously desperate Richie is to talk. He opens his mouth a few times, the words just on the tip of his tongue, but all it takes is one glance at Eddie in the rearview mirror and he’s back to the silent treatment.

It’s all very awkward, especially for Bill, who is only sort of aware of what’s going on.

Richie rolls to a stop a few houses down from Eddie’s. “Eds, look. Wait-” The slam of the door reverberates throughout the car. It shakes Bill to his core and leaves him with a cold, sort of empty, feeling in the pit of his stomach. Richie lets his face fall forward, his forehead dropping against the top of the steering wheel. “ _ Fuck _ .”

“I’ll tuh-talk to him.”

“Thank you,” Richie says, face still smushed against the wheel.

“He’ll come around.”

“I hope so,” Richie murmurs. He turns his head, so he’s still resting against the steering wheel, but now he can stare up at Bill with huge, glassy eyes. Without thinking, Bill reaches out and swipes the pads of his thumbs underneath Richie’s eyes. “I don’t know how this happened. One minute everything was fine, the next-” he scrubs furiously at his eyes, forcing his glasses to tumble unceremoniously onto his lap. “Did he really tell you?”

Bill nods. “Snuck into my hh-huh-house. Scared the shit out of me.”

Richie laughs weakly. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

“He tuh-told me-” Bill fiddles awkwardly with the loose thread of his jeans. “He told me that you were gonna ss-sluh-sleep with me.”

“Fuck. Yeah. But - I - You have to know-”

“Robert. I know.” Bill offers Richie a tight smile. “It just - That’s why I ff-freaked out. So, sorry.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not like I wanted my first time to be for world’s entertainment either,” Richie sighs. “Robert swears he would’ve cut the camera, but everyone still would have  _ known _ .” He shoves his glasses back onto his face, a goofy grin spreading across his face. “Look at that! You’re not blurry after all!”

Bill rolls his eyes. “Yuh-You should get back to the others. Tell them we’re alright.”

“Yeah,” Richie says. “Stan’s probably having aneurysm right about now.”

Bill gnaws harshly on his lower lip. “Tell him I’m ss-suh-sorry. For rr-ruh-running out.”

Richie nods. “I’m sure he’ll understand.”

Bill’s not so sure, but there’s no point in arguing.

He reaches out to give Richie’s hand a tight squeeze before hopping out of the car.

Eddie’s window is on the second floor, and getting up is a lot harder than getting down. He has to clamber his way up the nearby tree, jump over to Eddie’s windowsill without falling and shattering every bone in his body, open said window, again, without falling, and then get inside without making too much noise. Luckily, Eddie was kind enough to leave his window open for him. So he can skip that step.

Eddie’s curled up on his bed, scrolling aimlessly through something on his phone. He doesn’t even glance up when Bill enters the room. But Bill’s next words sure as hell get a reaction.

“Are you in love with Richie?”

Unfortunately, it’s not exactly the reaction Bill was hoping for. Eddie bursts into tears, going from glassy-eyed to full on crocodile tear sobbing in less than a minute.

Bill, in his alarmed state, rushes across the room to cradle Eddie in his arms, murmuring softly in his ear.

“It’s oh-okay,” he whispers. “It’s okay, it’s alright. Yuh-You’re alright.”

“I’m suh-sorry,” Eddie sobs. “I’m so fucking sorr-rry.”

“It’s okay, it’s alright,” Bill insists. “Wh-Why are you sorry?”

Even through his tears, Eddie manages to look incredulous. “He’s  _ your _ buh-buh-boyfriend!”

“Yeah, but-” Bill chews softly on his lower lip. How does he explain that Richie barely feels like a boyfriend? How does he explain that he hardly knows what a boyfriend is? “It’s wh-whatever.”

“It’s  _ whatever _ ?” Eddie screeches, and Bill quickly has to shush him to avoid waking the infamous Mrs. Kaspbrak. “What the fuck does that  _ mean _ ?”

“I dd-duh-don’t know,” Bill shrugs, rather pathetically. “You guys would be bb-buh-better together.”

“I’m not a fucking charity case,” Eddie hisses.

Bill lets him squirm out of his arms, even though it tears his heart in two to see him standing alone with tears in his eyes.

“No, no, ll-luh-listen,” Bill says hurriedly. “I love Richie, of course I do. But everything - everything has been so  _ weird _ lately. I huh-haven’t thought about our rr-ruh-relationship in so long, and now that I am it ddd-duh-duh-duh -  _ fuck _ \- it doesn’t feel  _ right _ .” He hesitates for a moment to spare a glance at Eddie. “I don’t know wh-what that means.”

Cautiously, Eddie returns to his place at Bill’s side, resting his head gently on Bill’s shoulder. Bill wastes no time wrapping his arm around Eddie’s shoulders and pulling him closer against him. Eddie’s still crying, though it’s lessened to tears softly gliding down his cheeks.

“This is all my fault,” he whispers.

“No-”

“It  _ is _ ,” Eddie insists. “Just - Just listen.” He takes a deep breath, wipes a few stray tears off his cheeks, and continues, “My mom never really liked me hanging out with the other Losers. But she used to let me come to work with her sometimes, when I was younger. And, of course, I would run into the other kids. Richie and I were always closer than everyone else, we had something special. And it wasn’t until a few months ago we figured it out and, I dunno, things seemed to be good. But you came out as bi and Robert wanted you to have a boyfriend, thought it would up the amount of viewers or something.” Eddie’s shoulders are shaking now. Bill cards his fingers through his hair, hoping it’ll give him even the littlest bit of comfort. “She wasn’t supposed to know. But she found this letter he wrote to me and went ballistic. The next day she told Robert that Richie should be your boyfriend and that was that.” He wraps his arms protectively around himself, as if half-expecting his mom to barge in at that exact moment. “She burnt the letter too.”

“I’m sorry,” Bill murmurs. “That’s awful.” Eddie shrugs. “Rr-Really, it is.”

“It’s whatever.” The joke is half-assed, still thick with Eddie’s internal turmoil, but Bill offers him a laugh anyway.

“Yeah, ah-alright, wise guy,” he says. He waits until Eddie’s giggles to die down before continuing, “I’m really ss-sorry about tonight. Stan will come around.”

Eddie groans overdramatically. “He’s right though-”

“No, he’s not,” Bill says. Eddie groans again, shuffling to hide his face in Bill’s shoulder. “He was just wuh-worried.”

“He should be worried, it was dumb,” Eddie mumbles. “I just - I couldn’t stand sitting around and doing  _ nothing _ anymore. I mean, okay, fine, maybe the whole Richie sleeping with you thing gave me the push but I had been thinking about it before!” When Bill doesn’t answer within the next second he adds, “Really! I swear!”

“I buh-believe you!”

Eddie slumps lower in his seat. “It wasn’t fair. Everyone else got to talk to you everyday. I only had my mom.” He points an accusing finger directly into Bill’s chest. “You better pray you never meet my mom, she is a piece of work. All she does is sit around and watch soap operas, which of course then inspire all of her ideas for your show.”

“Oh, God, that eh-explains so much.”

Eddie shakes his head. “She’s a mess. She sees no problem with the fact that I, apparently, have no friends. She doesn’t know I still talk to any of the Losers enough to be friends. It’s so fucking - When I was little I really didn’t have any friends. It was pathetic. I went to school, but none of the kids liked me. I would just come home and watch your show. I always felt like you were my best friend - Which I’m just realizing is super dumb, oh my God.”

He scrambles away from the bed, instead busying himself with checking and double checking the labels for the bottles lined across his desk.

“It’s not duh-dumb!” Bill insists.

“It’s okay,” Eddie says, the words tumbling out of his mouth in a rush. “I know it’s dumb. I used to be kind of pathetic. But, like, whatever, right?”

“It’s not pa-”

“It totally is,” Eddie rambles. “Because, like, who thinks of someone they don’t even know as their best friend? And it’s worse because I was always, like, jealous of the other Losers? For being able to hang out with you every day, isn’t that shitty?” He doesn’t give Bill a chance to respond before he’s off again, pacing furiously back and forth. “I always - I always felt like you were  _ my _ friend first. What did they have that I didn’t?”

“Eh-Eddie.”

“And then Bev left, or got fired, or whatever, and for a little bit I thought, like, maybe she would understand. But, no! Instead she goes and does something with her life and tries to help, which I didn’t even know was an option! Which, God, that sounds so fucking awful.”

“Eddie!”

“And, of course, Bev missed you too but it was different, ya know? She met you, you were actually - you were actually friends. And I was just sitting alone in my room like  _ ‘oh, I’m being a dumbass.’ _ I was, like, aware that you weren’t actually my friend but it still felt like it and I know it was so, so dumb-”

“ _ Eddie! _ ”

Eddie slows to a stop. He blinks owlishly at Bill, almost as if he had forgotten he was there.

“What?” he says.

Bill approaches him slowly, not unlike how one might approach a wild animal, and ever so slowly wraps his arms around him. “You’re not an idiot. Yuh-You’re the sweetest guy I know, and I’m glad I could bb-be there for you like that.”

“Thank you,” Eddie mumbles, bringing his arms up to wrap around Bill.

For a moment they stay like that, wrapped up in nothing but each other and the silence of the night. It’s a moment that’s truly their own. Bill’s never had anything like it before, not really, but it’s nice. Thinking back on every other moment like this, Bill’s slapped by the harsh reality that those moments never really belonged to him. They never belonged to Richie, or Stan, or Mike, or Ben, or Bev, or Georgie or whoever he was sharing them with. Hell, even his own “death” didn’t belong to Georgie. All those moments belonged to the viewers spread out across the world, watching from the comfort of their living rooms.

But this, this belongs to no one but them.

The moment can’t go on forever, but it’s still painful when they’re interrupted by a quick buzz from Eddie’s phone.

And that’s all it takes for the mood to shift completely.

“Oh shit,” Eddie mutters.

“Hmm?”

“I guess they found your tracker. Look.”

He shoves the phone in Bill’s face, showcasing a large photo of him directly under the headline: “ _ Robert Gray Finally Reveals Reasons for Denbrough Show Shutdown. _ ”

“Oh, sh-shit.” Bill takes the phone from Eddie, quickly skimming the article. It doesn’t say anything he doesn’t already know. He’s missing, they’re looking for him, they’re hoping to get the show up and running again as soon as possible. Yada, yada, yada.

“We’re gonna be fine,” Eddie insists. But, as Eddie starts to scroll almost impossibly fast it becomes hard to tell whether he’s reassuring Bill or himself. “We just -  _ Fuck _ .”

“ _ What _ ?” Bill cries out, alarmed.

“Shit,  _ shit _ . I have to - I have to call Richie.”

“ _ Richie _ ? Wh-Why do you -  _ Eddie _ ! Why dd-duh-do you have to call Richie?”

Eddie shoves his phone back into Bill’s hands. “Robert. He must - He must know. That Richie’s helping you. I don’t - He must’ve said something, I’m trying to find the original statement.”

Bill stares blankly at the phone. #1 trending: #RichieTozierIsCancelledParty. What the fuck does that mean? When he asks, Eddie just shrugs violently.

“I don’t know! I don’t know why! He hasn’t done anything-”

“No! What does it  _ mm-muh-mean _ ?”

“Oh. It - Uh - It means everyone in the entire world hates him.”

Bill furrows his eyebrows. “I’m sure the  _ entire _ world doesn’t huh-hate him.”

“They do!” Eddie insists. But he’s a little hysterical right now, so Bill doesn’t know how much he should believe him. “Give me that, I need to keep looking!”

As Bill hands the phone back to a practically vibrating Eddie, it becomes painfully obvious that he won’t be getting any sleep tonight. He doesn’t mind though, he’s happy to help his friends in any way that he can.

So he follows Eddie back to the bed and dutifully helps him skim every article they can find.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a real soft spot for Bill and Eddie's friendship,,,in case you couldn't notice.
> 
> I am SO fucking sorry it's been like literally a month since I updated. I wanted to get this out a lot sooner but I started working on a new project and it took up way more time than I thought it would. The good thing is that this other project is hopefully gonna be out soon too! It's also stenbrough, but it's gonna be a lot shorter and a lot darker😳But if you want, I'll let you know when it's posted.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you liked this chapter! Please let me know what you thought, I'll hopefully have the next chapter posted soon!


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We’ll get you out of this,” Ben mutters. And Richie doesn’t know how he’s planning on doing that, but he believes him. Because Ben is good. He’s so good that it’s hard not to believe him. “We’ll explain the ones we can. We’ll figure out something for the ones we can’t. It’ll be okay.” It’s so genuine, almost overwhelmingly genuine, that Richie can’t help but melt into his arms. And Ben’s arms are a naturally comforting place to be, it’s not that surprising when Richie feels himself start to finally break.
> 
> And yet he still feels more than a little pathetic when he sniffles out a quiet, “Thank you.”

Richie’s halfway back to Bev’s apartment when he gets the phone call.

His publicist, a sweet girl named Jane Marrone, is on the other end. Despite this proclaimed sweetness, she’s yelled at Richie a handful of times. It’s almost always because he deserved it, he’ll be the first to admit. He’s used to the way she shouts his name through the grainy speakers. But this time is different. She’s practically screeching, so loud that there’s a good possibility she’s about to pop Richie’s eardrum, and her words are practically inaudible.

“Janey,” Richie says. He tries to keep his voice lighthearted, hoping it alleviates some of her distress. But even with all the debt he’s accumulated from years and years of acting classes, concern creeps into his voice. “What’s wrong? Are you alright?”

“Am  _ I _ alright?” Jane shrieks. “You - I -  _ What did you do? _ ”

Richie lets out a laugh, despite the way his insides twist. “I didn’t do anything!”

“ _ Then why the fuck do I have every fucking gossip magazine trying to get an interview? Why is fucking Buzzfeed asking for a fucking statement? A statement, Richie! From Buzzfeed! Do you have any idea how badly you have to fuck up for Buzzfeed to want your statement? _ ”

Richie swallows thickly. “A statement on what?”

Jane takes a deep breath through her nose. He’s going to kill her one day, Richie thinks warily.

“The Denbrough Show,” she says.

_ Fuck _ . “What about it?”

“Did you try to sleep with Bill?”

Richie squirms in his seat. “Yeah…”

“ _ Goddammit, Richard! _ ”

“But I didn’t!”

“That’s not the point!” Jane shrieks. “You’re both minors, you said some God awful things, you completely fucked up your reputation! The internet is having a field day, Tozier! They think you were going to  _ hurt _ him, Richard!”

“What was I supposed to do? Robert said we needed more views-”

“So your idea was to fuck your co-star?”

“No! I - Wait,  _ what? _ Back it up.  _ My _ idea? It wasn’t my idea!”

“Look, I don’t care which of your friends put the idea in your head-”

“No! Robert! It was Robert’s idea!”

Jane falls silent. The only reason Richie knows she hasn’t hung on him is because he can hear her heaving breaths across the line. It’s a clear sign that she’s still angry, and Richie can only hope that the subject of her anger has shifted.

“Do you have any proof?”

_ Oh, nonononono _ . “ _ You have to believe me! _ You know I wouldn’t-”

“I believe you, Richie,” she says, and Richie can feel his shoulders relax. “But you’re going to need some strong arguments if you want to sway the rest of the internet.”

“I can find something,” Richie promises. “I won’t let you down, Chief.”

“Alright,” Jane murmurs. “I’m sending you the quotes he has. I want full explanations for all of them.”

“They’re fake,” Richie says. “I swear it.”

Except, when he sees them, they most definitely are not. Taken out of context? Yes. Fake? Of course not. Richie could never be that lucky.

“Jesus Christ,” Bev mutters as she looks them over. “What the fuck dude?”

“It’s not what it sounds like,” Richie insists desperately.

“Oh, I remember this one,” Stan mutters.

Richie peeks over his shoulder.

“ _ If he’s not careful he’ll end up choking on this massive dick _ ,” Stan reads. “You’re super gross.”

“Okay, but that was more about my dick than him.”

Stan sighs heavily. “I know, Richie. I was there. I was there for most of these.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“I sure hope you are.”

“This one’s really graphic,” Ben frowns. “ _ He’s such a fucking tease. I just wanna bend him over and- _ ”

“ _ Why would you read it? _ ” Mike shrieks, batting the phone out of Ben’s hand.

“I thought we were all reading them,” Ben says innocently, a pink tinge dusting his cheeks.

Richie’s own cheeks hold a similar color, though much, much darker. “That one wasn’t about Bill-”

“ _ We know! _ ” Bev yelps. “Shit, Rich, I don’t know how you’re going to get out of this one.”

“Well - Well you guys have to help me,” Richie says, almost pleadingly. “You’ll tell them what I really meant, right?”

“Of course,” Mike says. “But we can’t talk about the original context of some of these.”

“We don’t have to explain  _ all _ of them!” Except he does, he really fucking does.

“The worst ones are the ones we can’t explain!” Mike continues, making Richie snap his jaw shut. “How the hell are we supposed to explain Eddie? The entire internet will explode if they think you were cheating on Bill!”

“It’s better than what they think now,” he murmurs. When his friends don’t seem to catch on, he continues, “Robert’s trying to make it look like I was going to - Ya know…” He trails off, hoping to God that they understand. He can’t say it. He doesn't even want to  _ think _ about it.

Luckily, they seem to know what he’s trying to say, because a minute later Stan’s muttering a broken, “Shit,” and Ben’s throwing his arms around his shoulders.

“We’ll get you out of this,” Ben mutters. And Richie doesn’t know  _ how _ he’s planning on doing that, but he believes him. Because Ben is  _ good _ . He’s so good that it’s hard not to believe him. “We’ll explain the ones we can. We’ll figure out something for the ones we can’t. It’ll be okay.” It’s so genuine, almost overwhelmingly genuine, that Richie can’t help but melt into his arms. And Ben’s arms are a naturally comforting place to be, it’s not that surprising when Richie feels himself start to finally break.

And yet he still feels more than a little pathetic when he sniffles out a quiet, “Thank you.”

“We’re your friends,” Ben says. “Friends have each other’s backs.”

Which is nice, wonderful even, except Stan clearly stiffens at the words. It’s small, barely noticeable, but it still stabs at Richie’s heart.

“Right, Stan?” Bev prods.

“Right,” Stan says, far too quickly. “Yeah, of course.”

Mike nudges him gently with his foot. “Is this about Robert?”

Stan seems to shrink into himself, arms wrapping around his waist and knees coming up to his chest. “I mean, yeah. We can’t just - We can’t just purposely piss him off.”

“Why not?” Bev says, fixing him with a hard stare from across the room.

“Because he’s terrifying!” Stan hisses. It’s much more brutally honest than any of them were expecting. Because they all know Robert’s terrifying, they've all experienced his wrath. But rarely do they admit something of the sort so blatantly. Usually it’s much more roundabout, about how he could ruin their lives or hurt their career. Never do they admit they’re outright scared.

“You think we don’t know that?” Bev says with narrowed eyes. “If you’re not willing to take the risk then you shouldn’t be here at all.”

It’s harsh, perhaps too harsh, because even Richie flinches away at that one.

“I didn’t say that,” Stan squeaks out.

“ _ Hey _ ,” Richie says, hissing it out before things can get too out of hand. “We’ve already pissed off Eddie, we don’t need this too. Let’s just - Let’s just sleep on it, alright?”

“Alright,” Bev murmurs. “Are you guys all staying here tonight?”

“I can go,” Stan says, already halfway to his feet.

Bev rolls her eyes, a soft sigh on her lips. “Don’t be ridiculous, of course you can stay. C’mon, we can all squish onto the bed.”

Despite all the chaos, Richie’s nerves calm as soon as he lies down. It’s comforting, even if he is squished like a sardine. Tucked under one arm is Stan, breath coming out soft and even against his chest. Mike is laying half on top of Richie, snoring loudly in his ear, trying to make room for Ben and Bev in the remaining space.

Today has been fucking awful. A trainwreck, really. But Richie’s determined to turn everything around tomorrow.

-

The next day, everything does  _ not _ turn around.

Mike had gone to pick up Bill and Eddie about twenty minutes after they woke up. Eddie had tried to talk to Richie when they first came in, tried to tell him how sorry he was, but the words got stuck in his throat. He had just ended up making awkward eye contact for about twenty seconds before turning around and marching to the farthest corner of the room he could find. Bill had followed him not long later, and now he’s staring curiously over Eddie’s shoulder as he continues to scroll through the hashtag.

“Yuh-You should just talk to him,” Bill murmurs. “ _ This _ ,” he gestures to the screen in Eddie’s hands, “Can’t be healthy.”

Eddie shakes his head. “I can’t. You know that. I can’t, Bill. And - And this is - this is fine. I wouldn’t say it’s  _ unhealthy _ . I’m doing research!”

“Uh-huh,” Bill says. “I’m sure you would be even mm-muh-more helpful if you talked to him.”

“Why don’t  _ you _ talk to him?” Eddie seethes. “If you’re so - Wait, where are you going?”

Richie’s leaning against the kitchen island, still obsessing over the quotes in his email, when Bill sidles up next to him.

“Hey,” he says without glancing away from his phone. “What’s up?”

He sounds exhausted. Just hearing him makes Bill want to pull him away from everything and demand he take a nap. But, deep in his heart, he knows this isn’t the type of exhaustion caused from lack of sleep. It’s the type of exhaustion caused by the hatred of the many, and the demands of a man trying to play God.

“Is there anything Eds and I can do to huh-help?” Bill asks.

“I dunno,” Richie mutters. “I’m just trying to think of ways to spin this now.”

“Why don’t you just tell them the tt-truh-truth?”

Richie scoffs. “No one would believe me. Robert Gray’s one of the greatest directors in the world. Apparently. And your parents were two of the most beloved actors of their time, no one’s gonna want to believe they got caught up in this. Which, by the way, the video they posted has gone viral.”

“The one wh-where they talk about how mm-much they miss me?”

“Mhm.”

“And cry a lot?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

“That was bb-buh-bullshit,” Bill grumbles.

“Oh, I’m sure they do miss you,” Richie says. “How couldn’t they? You were the key to that big fat paycheck they got once a month.”

The joke falls flat, but Bill laughs anyway.

It does make him wonder, though, was that really all they cared about? Bill would like to say they still cared about him, on some level. He would like to say they just made some bad decisions. But then he remembers how they threw out Georgie like he was last night’s trash, and suddenly he’s not so sure.

It infuriates him. All this pain and suffering, just for a little bit of fame.

“Hey,” he says. “Wh-What if I said something?”

Richie glances at him curiously. “What do you mean?”

“About  _ that _ .” Bill gestures to the quotes still standing boldly against the small screen. “People might luh-listen to me.”

For a moment Richie looks tempted, but then, “No. No, I can’t ask you to do that.”

“Why not? I would do it.” A part of Bill - a big part -  _ wants _ to do it. He wants to get back at Robert. He wants to  _ hurt _ him. He wants to hurt Robert like he hurt Bill, like he hurt Georgie, like he hurt the Losers. It’s what he deserves, after all.

“It’s dangerous,” Richie says. “There has to be something else.”

“Why dd-duh-don’t you ask Eddie?” Bill suggests, nodding in his general direction. Eddie, who had been watching them over his phone, quickly ducks his head back down, pretending to busy himself by typing furiously. “He might have ss-suh-some ideas.”

“I would love to,” Richie says. “But you forget that Eddie fucking hates me at the moment.”

Bill rolls his eyes. “He doesn’t huh-hate you.”

“Sure fucking feels like it.”

“Rich, he mm-muh-misses you as much as you miss him.” When Richie still doesn’t move, Bill continues, “He wuh-was telling me about you guys last night.”

“What’d he say?”

“Nothing you dd-duh-don’t already know, I’m sure,” Bill says. “But I’m really sorry it turned out this way.”

“It’s not your fault,” Richie says. He shrugs flippantly. “Whatchya gonna do?”

Bill smiles softly at his friend. “You should tell him you love him.”

Richie gasps overdramatically. “Wait, are you dumping me? On today of all days? Harsh, Denbrough, harsh.”

“Don’t think of it as dumping,” Bill says. “Th-Think of it as...ss-suh-setting you free.”

Richie snorts. “Yeah, alright.”

“It’s true,” Bill says. “You deserve to be huh-happy.”

Richie offers him a sideways grin. “So do you.” Bill hums softly. “Ya know, Stan was originally supposed to be your boyfriend. In the show.”

Bill glances at Stan out of the corner of his eye. He’s sitting on the floor, hunched over his laptop as he dutifully refuses eye contact with anyone in the room. “Stan?”

“Mhm. But don’t tell him I told you that.” He leans in close as he whispers, “He thinks he fucked up bad, you should go talk to him.”

When Bill first sits down, Stan doesn’t look up. Whether it’s because he’s just  _ so _ focused, or he’s actually trying to ignore Bill isn’t entirely clear (though Bill suspects the latter). Bill slowly closes the laptop, watching as Stan gnaws nervously on his lower lip.

“What ah-are you doing?” Bill asks.

“Well, I  _ was _ reading Robert’s latest interview,” Stan says with a pout, still refusing to look Bill in the eye.

“You ll-look like you’re about to pass out.”

“I’m just focused.”

Bill reaches out, taking one of Stan’s curls between his fingers and tugging gently. Stan screws up his face, clearly unhappy with this development, but it does the trick. His eyes dart up from the floor to Bill’s face. Even with his nerves, he can’t stop a small smile from gracing his face.

“Stan,” Bill says

“Mhm?”

“I’m nuh-not mad.”

“I didn’t say you were mad!”

Bill rolls his eyes. “You were th-thinking it. Look, I ah-ap-appreciate you looking out for me. But I think you should talk to Eddie-”

Stan’s eyes drop back down to the floor. “I know you think I’m an asshole. And I don’t ever want to hurt Eddie, you know I love him. But do you have any idea how many close calls we had? Who knows what would have happened if even one thing had gone wrong.”

“But they dd-duh-didn’t,” Bill says. “And things turned out alright.”

Stan scoffs. “Do they look alright to you?”

Which is a fairly good point. Everyone is in distress, trying desperately to solve an unsolvable problem. Richie especially has been hysterical all day. Currently he’s tucked under Eddie’s chin, eyebrows furrowed as he continues to scroll through his phone. Distantly, Bill can’t help but wonder if maybe things would have been better if he had stayed.

“I just care about you,” Stan murmurs. “I don’t - I don’t know what Robert would do to you if he found out.”

It’s a terrifying confession, because Bill’s never thought too deeply about what Robert might do to him if he’s no longer useful. Yet his words still make a small smile grace his face.

“I care about you too,” he says softly.

Stan’s eyes snap back up, looking up at Bill through his lashes. “Yeah? I mean - Yeah - That’s - That’s good - Cool - Yeah, cool. Great.”

Bill chuckles softly.

“What does the article ss-say?” he asks, shuffling over to sit next to Stan, and trying not to think too hard about how their sides press together.

“So far, not much that we don’t already know,” Stan sighs. “I think he knows you’re with us, though. He’s just waiting to get proof.”

Bill shudders. “And o-once he gets that proof?”

“I don’t know,” Stan murmurs. “I really don’t know. It won’t - It won’t be pretty.”

Bill sighs. “I’m sure.” He nods half-heartedly towards the computer. “I’ll help yuh-you look.”

“You don’t have to,” Stan says. “I’m doing alright.” He’s tugging his sleeves over his hands again, stretching the material until it straints against his fingers. “It’s kind of boring.”

Bill pries his fingers away from his sleeves, watching as the material bounces back into place. “I ww-want to. I promise I’m not upset, Stan. Really.”

“Everyone’s a little upset.”

The statement breaks Bill’s heart. Stan doesn’t say it like he’s sad, though Bill knows he is. He says it like it’s a truth. Like it’s a fact that everyone’s a little bit angry with Stanley Uris.

“No one’s uh-upset,” Bill says. “They’re jjuh-just hurt.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Course there is,” Bill says, though he isn’t really sure. It’s undeniable that they go hand in hand.

Luckily, Stan doesn’t push anymore. He re-opens the laptop, letting Bill rest his head on his shoulder as he reads.

It’s fascinating, seeing himself through someone else’s eyes. It’s terrifying, of course, but it’s  _ so _ fascinating. The way Robert talks about him, he doesn’t feel like a person. He feels like an object, like a missing family heirloom. Something Robert’s simply misplaced.

Robert talks about how devastated he is. He calls Bill the star of Hollywood, telling the reporters that this show was his pride and joy. He spins tales of woe, going on and on about how he fears Bill may not survive the outside world.

Maybe object isn’t the right word. Pet seems to fit better. Bill’s like a house cat. A house cat who chases after laser lights he’ll never catch, just to make the Big Boss laugh. A house cat who could simply never survive the wild, not when he’s gotten so used to his life of luxury.

“Not everyone agrees with him,” Stan says softly. “There are plenty of people who think you should be able to stay here. I mean, some think that just because they’re worried the show won’t be as authentic if they pick it up again after you know about the outside world. But that’s a pretty small percentage, so we don’t really have to worry about them. Most of the people just think it’s fucked up that - Bill? Are you listening?”

Bill looks like he’s seen a ghost, face pasty pale and hand shaking as he points. “What’s - What’s th-that?”

Stan follows his outstretched finger, eyes widening as he realizes where Bill’s looking. “Oh,  _ fuck _ . That must be new. That wasn’t there a minute ago, it must’ve just been uploaded-”

“ _ Play it! _ ” Bill blurts out, perhaps a bit too loudly, judging by how much Stan jumps. But he doesn’t seem upset by Bill’s outburst, and doesn’t say a word as he presses play on the video.

_ He looks older. He  _ is _ older, nearing eleven now. But it’s such a drastic change from the seven year old Bill remembers, seeing him is not unlike a punch to the face. _

_ “How are you today?” an offscreen interviewer asks. He smiles in response. It doesn’t reach his eyes like it used to. _

_ “Good, thank you. How are you?” _

_ “I’m doing well,” the interviewer says. “Do you mind stating your name for the camera?” _

_ He grins straight into the camera now. The dark circles under his eyes are obvious, standing out starkly against his skin despite the makeup they’ve caked onto his face. “My name is Georgie Denbrough, and I’m very happy to have been invited here today.” _

_ “Awe, that’s sweet. Now, for those that might not know, your brother is Bill Denbrough, correct?” Georgie hums an affirmative. “Now, I know you’ve kept out of the public eye these past few years, but do you still watch the show?” _

_ “Yeah!” For a moment, a spark of that childhood happiness lights up his smile. But it’s gone as soon as it arrives. “I have it on all the time, drives everyone else crazy.” _

_ The interviewer laughs, which Georgie seems to take as his cue to laugh as well. _

_ “That’s cute,” the interviewer says, her voice coming out in a coo. “Has the sudden cancelation affected that in any way?” _

_ “Yeah, for sure,” Georgie says, as if it isn’t the most obvious question in the world. “It’s been hard, not having anything in real time anymore. But I’ve been rewatching the previous episodes.” _

_ The interviewer laughs again. Georgie follows suit, a hard, forced sound coming from deep in his throat. _

_ “So it hasn’t affected you too much,” the interviewer says. _

_ “Yeah, I guess.” _

_ “I’m sure by now you’ve heard the news.” _

_ Georgie swallows thickly, but his smile doesn’t waver. “Yeah, of course.” _

_ “Do you have any idea where your brother might have gone?” _

_ Georgie shakes his head. “I don’t, sorry.” _

_ The interviewer makes a sad noise. “Do you miss him?” _

_ “Everyday. Uh - Everyday since - since the cancelation.” His eyes slide past the camera, locking on something on the side opposite of where he had been previously looking. But then the interviewer clears her throat and Georgie’s eyes are back on her in a matter of seconds. _

_ “If you could see him now, is there anything you would say?” _

_ Georgie’s eyes return to the camera. They have a sad, melancholy look to them, like someone just told him a distant friend has passed. “I would want to let him know that the world out here isn’t anything like the world on set. On set, you have your own personal safety net. But out here it’s a free for all. I don’t know what I would do if I turned on the news one day and found out something had happened to you. You make so many people happy. You make so many lives so much brighter. You make  _ my _ life so much brighter.” He blinks blurrily, tears clinging to his eyelashes like morning dew on a fresh blade of grass. “I don’t know where you are, or why you left. But please don’t leave forever. Please come back home, Billy.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 😳😳😳
> 
> Hey, if any of you are interested, I started posting another stenbrough fic. It's called Vendetta, it's a lot darker, but I'm really proud of it if you wanna go check it out!
> 
> Anyway, I hope you liked this chapter! I've been so excited to write Georgie into the story for so long, I'm so happy we're finally here. Please leave a comment, I always love hearing your thoughts! Thank you for reading!


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “C’mon, Georgie,” Robert says. “I know this is hard for you, it’s hard on all of us. If we’re gonna find your brother, you need to talk to us.”
> 
> Georgie sucks his lower lip between his teeth, biting hard enough to leave little marks along the flesh. “I was asleep. I didn’t see anything.”

September 21st, 1989 (or 2016, to the rest of the world)

There are no beaches in Derry. The closest beach is in Portland, which, according to Bill’s parents, is nearly a three hour’s drive away. So the Denbrough brothers make due with what they have. Which is the natural lake on Derry’s outskirts.

Bill has been planning this day for a week. Ever since Georgie came home with a 100% on his weekly spelling test.

Their parents had been excited enough, but Bill wanted to do something special.

The lake wasn’t much, but Georgie’s eyes still lit up at the prospect. So, that Saturday, Bill helps him gather their swim trunks and towels before waving goodbye to their parents and scurrying out the door.

Bill’s much faster on his bike than little Georgie is, but he has no qualms about slowing down a bit to match his brother’s pace. Though he does tease him relentlessly for it.

“Come on!” he says. “At least truh-truh-try to keep up!”

“I  _ am _ trying!” Georgie whines. “Your legs are too long!” Bill cackles loudly, making Georgie glowering over his handlebars. “Gonna squish you in your sleep.”

This only makes Bill laugh louder. “Yuh-You’re gonna  _ what _ ?”

“Then you’ll be short!” Georgie shrieks. And, technically, Bill’s already shorter than most of his peers, but Georgie doesn’t need to know that.

“You can’t do that!” Bill cries out.

“Oh yeah? What’re you gonna do?”

“I’ll tell mm-mom and dad to return you to the ss-stuh-store!” Bill says, making Georgie scream.

“ _ What store? _ ” he yells.

“Wuh-We’re almost there,” Bill says instead of answering.

The Losers and himself have taken to jumping into the quarry, but he figures the height is too much for Georgie. So he finds a narrow path and helps the younger Denbrough find his footing as they skitter down to the water.

“It’s too steep!” Georgie insists. “I’m gonna fall!”

“You’re not gonna ff-fuh-fuh-fall,” Bill says. “I promise.”

Georgie pouts, but must believe what Bill says, because he tightens his grip on his older brother’s arm and takes another step.

True to his word, they end up at the bottom of the cliff unscathed.

“You did it!” Bill cheers.

Georgie squeals in response. “I did it, I did it! We were all the way up there, and now we’re all the way down here!” Bill laughs loudly, making Georgie squint suspiciously at him. “What?”

“Nuh-Nothing,” Bill grins. “C’mon! I’ll race you!”

He doesn’t wait for a response, instead taking off towards the water at a sprint.

“Hey!” Georgie calls after him. “No fair!”

“You better huh-hurry up,” Bill says, already wading through the water.

Georgie greets him with a splash a moment later. “Meanie,” he pouts.

“Awe, sorry,” Bill says, not at all sorry.

“You always win,” Georgie insists. “It’s not fair!”

“Okay, oh-okay,” Bill says. “How about we race to that rock? You can have a head start.”

Georgie watches him with wide eyes. “Really?”

“Mhm.”

Georgie considers this. He nods slowly. “Okay.” He paddles out further into the lake, glancing over his shoulder when he deems himself far enough. “Ready?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Go!”

Bill catches up with his brother easily, but he quickly falls back. He feels a little silly, floating a few feet behind Georgie as the younger brother swims as quickly as he can. But it’s all worth it when Georgie finally hoists himself on top of the rock and offers Bill a toothy grin.

“I did it!” Georgie chirps. “I beat you! I am the fastest swimmer in all of Derry!”

“Oh no!” Bill exclaims, causing Georgie to cackle and teeter back into the water. “Bb-Buh-Beaten at last!”

That’s how a majority of the day seems to go. It’s simple, but Bill doesn’t know if he’s ever been happier.

He has plenty of friends, enough that he never truly feels lonely, but Georgie’s his best friend, hands down. Even on his darkest days, Georgie’s able to lift his mood with something as simple as a smile. And he makes his good days brighter.

And today is certainly a good day.

An hour later Bill’s laying flat on his back up on the shore, eyes shut, as he basks in the sunlight. It’s peaceful. For once, he feels calm. But as wonderful as calm is, it’s always followed by a storm.

He doesn’t notice that he can’t hear Georgie splashing in the background anymore until it’s too late.

November 28th, 2019

The first few weeks, Georgie had cried and cried for hours. He had cried until his new foster dad came storming into his room, eyebrows creased and teeth bared.

“Now, Georgie,” he had said. “This is better for everyone, crying about it isn’t going to do any good.”

This only made Georgie cry harder, insisting, “I want to see Billy!”

A moment later he was met with a sharp pain under his eye and a bruise in the mirror the next morning. He didn’t cry anymore after that. At least not in front of anyone.

Still, a TV was installed in his room that very night.

In the years since then, Georgie has been glued to the television. And who can blame him? It’s not like he has anything else to do, or anyone else to talk to. Unless you count Robert, his foster dad, but Georgie would rather jump out his bedroom window than willingly engage in conversation with that man.

He has a few books lying around, presents Robert or his parents have given him over the years, but he’s read them all at least a dozen times. At some point, the same old story gets boring.

But Billy never gets boring. Which is why the TV is always on. Whether he’s actively watching, or it’s playing softly in the background, it’s always there. There’s just something comforting about his brother’s soft voice.

By now Georgie knows he’ll never hear that voice in person again. He’s begged and begged, but nothing can make Robert budge. Not even the fat tears that roll down Georgie’s cheeks in the dead of night, stifled only by his overly fluffy pillow.

Georgie’s come to accept it though, even if it does make hairline cracks form all over his heart.

Even the childish dream of Billy showing up at his window to take him away forever has lessened over the years. There’s no use hoping for something that will simply never happen. Besides, if what Robert says is true, it’s better off this way.

Still, Georgie can’t help but feel a prickle of hope when Billy disappears from the screen.

It’s late, and Georgie knows he should be sleeping, but this time of night is the only time he doesn’t have to worry about anyone else. Usually Robert’s tramping around the house, filling Georgie’s veins with unease. He can’t even sneak out of his room to get a snack without finding himself face to face with the older man. And if he has to talk to him, there’s always the chance he might say the wrong thing. But Georgie can’t piss him off if he’s asleep.

Of course, if he wakes him up, there will be hell to pay, but that’s a whole other story.

At first, Georgie doesn’t notice that Billy is gone. Richie had pushed him into a dark corner and Georgie, not particularly up for watching his brother make out with Richie Tozier, busied himself with doodling in his newest notebook.

Only when he looks up again, Billy has completely vanished.

Richie shows up again a moment later, but he looks just as disoriented as Georgie feels.

Billy doesn’t show up again that night, and when Georgie wakes up the next morning his TV is filled with static. He figures it must be broken, but no matter what he does, nothing seems to fix it.

So he slouches off to breakfast and resolves himself to simply asking Robert.

In his head, he has what he wants to say planned out perfectly. It’s eloquent enough that he’s sure he won’t get a lecture, and convincing enough that there would be no way Robert could say no. But what he says instead is, “TV’s broken.”

Robert peers at him over the top of his laptop, “And why did you break the TV, Georgie?”

“I didn’t!” Georgie does his best not to squirm. “I woke up and it was broken! It’s all staticy.”

“It’s not broken,” Robert says, the hint of frustration in his voice making Georgie flinch. “We’ve just cancelled the show for now.” He glances back at the laptop, fingers flying furiously across the keyboard. “It’ll be back once we find your brother.”

“ _ You lost my brother? _ ” Georgie shrieks. Robert glowers at him, fingers stilling over the keyboard, and Georgie murmurs out a quiet, “Sorry.”

Either his apology must be good enough, or Robert is simply too busy to reprimand him, but he only shrugs and says, “We’ll find him soon enough. We’ve already located the tracker.”

Truthfully, Georgie thinks the tracker is gross. But last time he had brought this up with Robert, he had spent the next week or so sporting a black eye. So he just nods quietly and retreats back to his room.

Now that Billy’s gone, there isn’t much else to watch. Georgie spends a while flipping through various television channels, but there’s nothing particularly interesting on. Certainly nothing that makes him feel as safe as Billy did. Which is sort of a silly thought. Billy was never here, he never even knew Georgie was watching him. His sudden absence shouldn’t make a difference. But it does. His room almost feels empty, like something’s missing.

Georgie puts on the first action movie he can find and shoves the thought to the back of his mind.

That night, his parents come over for dinner.

It’s strange, because the last time he had seen them had been his birthday. He remembers it clear as day, the four of them crowded around the dining room table as they tried desperately to pretend they weren’t a freak show of a family. The parents who are too busy to see their son more than, maybe, twice a year. The foster dad who runs a border-line illegal television network. The son who has barely left his room since he was eight. How much closer to a sit-com could he get? It wouldn’t even be a good sit-com. It would be one of those sit-coms that makes everyone just a little bit nervous, because the jokes aren’t funny and the scenarios are just a tad too dark, and gets cancelled after one season. Pathetic.

Still, today is different from his birthday. No one’s bothering to fake a smile.

“I can’t believe he’s really gone,” Shanon - Georgie’s mother - bemoans. “I don’t know where we went wrong.”

“This isn’t your fault,” Robert says, reaching out to cover her free hand with his own. “We’ll get through this. Together.”

Georgie wants to scream. Because this absolutely  _ is _ their fault. They’re the ones who stuck Billy in that - that fucking  _ place _ . They’re the ones who took Billy away from him. They’re the ones that thought it would be a good idea to cut into his arm, as nonchalantly as if they were chipping the family dog.

But he doesn’t say any of that. He doesn’t say anything at all.

Not even when Zach - his father - asks if he saw anything suspicious on the TV. He just shakes his head and pokes silently at his peas.

“C’mon, Georgie,” Robert says. “I know this is hard for you, it’s hard on all of us. If we’re gonna find your brother, you need to talk to us.”

Georgie sucks his lower lip between his teeth, biting hard enough to leave little marks along the flesh. “I was asleep. I didn’t see anything.”

But Robert’s always been smarter than Georgie, and sees through the lie right away. But he’s also smart enough not to accuse Georgie of anything with his parents sitting directly across from him.

He hums quietly. “Strange. You're usually so attentive.”

“I thought he had already gone to sleep,” Georgie says, and then he shoves a mouthful of bread into his mouth to avoid answering any more questions.

“Well keep your eyes open,” Shanon says, as if she doesn’t know Georgie hasn’t gone further than the driveway’s front gates in three years.

Still, he nods and mumbles out a soft, “Sure,” around a mouthful of bread.

It makes his mother purse her lips, face screwing up in disgust. “Don’t talk with your mouth full. Haven’t we taught you anything?”

Georgie wants to tell her that she  _ hasn’t _ taught him anything. Not since she willingly let Robert rip him away from his family. His  _ real _ family.

But all he says is, “Sorry,” and swallows his goddamned bread.

“Not to worry,” Robert says. “We’ve already located his tracker, and I’ve sent people to go fetch him as we speak. He should be back in our arms by morning tomorrow.”

“That’s such a relief,” Zach says. “We don’t know what we would do without him.”

Georgie wants to remind them that he’s been without his brother for years, and no one bothers comforting him when he complains. He’s been told to shut his mouth, oftentimes accompanied by the back of a hand, more times than he can count.

But instead of saying any of this, he shovels more peas into his mouth.

“ _ But _ ,” Robert says, “If things don’t turn out in our favor, I’ve set up an emergency interview. For Georgie.”

Georgie stills. “What?”

“I just figured if anyone can convince Bill to come back, it’s you.” Robert shoots a grin at Georgie’s parents. “Don’t you think?”

“It’s a wonderful idea,” Shanon insists. “You ought to do it, Georgie.”

“I - Yeah - Of course. Of course I’ll do it,” Georgie murmurs.

“Great.” Robert’s grin grows wider, and Georgie can’t help but think it reminds him of a shark. “It’s simply for a worst case scenario. I’m sure it won’t come to that.”

It does come to that.

Georgie finds himself sitting in a cushy interview chair, mouth glued shut as people bustle around him. Robert had grilled him the whole way over.  _ Smile. Answer the questions. Don’t fuck up. _

Should be easy enough. Except that there’s nothing more terrifying than the camera pointed at his face and the dozens of people milling around. He hasn’t been around this many people since he moved in with Robert. And while they seem fascinated by him, constantly sneaking glances in his direction and whispering in hushed voices, no one’s spoken a word to him since arriving.

Georgie supposes that’s okay. He doesn’t know what he would say to them anyway.

He’s been zoned out on the opposite wall for nearly five minutes when Robert claps him harshly on the shoulder. “Feeling ready?”

“Yeah,” Georgie says through a wince, even though his brain is screaming  _ No! _

“Good,” Robert says. “Cameras should be going up any minute. Remember.” He squeezes Georgie’s shoulder. “Smile.”  _ Don’t fuck up.  _ Robert shares a smile with the interviewer as she sinks into the opposite chair. “Melissa, always good to see you again.”

“I could say the same to you,” the interviewer - Melissa - grins. “And we’re excited to have you here, Georgie.”

Georgie forces his mouth to curve upwards. “Happy to be here.”

The words feel strange in his mouth, but he must have said the right thing because Robert pats his shoulder in approval before disappearing behind the camera.

“Alright,” the camera man says. “And we’re rolling in three, two…” he points silently at Melissa, who immediately turns to grin at Georgie. He can’t help but feel like a rabbit being circled by a hawk. “How are you today?”

Still, Georgie manages to smile. Big and cheerful, just like Robert told him. “Good, how are you?”

For a while, the interview seems to be going well. The internal mantra of  _ don’t fuck up, don’t fuck up, don’t fuck up _ seems to be working pretty well. He keeps the smile on his face, even when his cheeks start to ache, because he can’t afford to slip up. And he doesn’t.

Until he does.

It’s small, something he’s sure no one else is really going to notice. But Robert notices. And he’s  _ furious _ .

Not that anyone else knows that. He looks happy enough, a broad smile on his face and a lighthearted tone to his voice. But Georgie knows better.

The other shoe drops when he gets home. Georgie has barely made it through the threshold when Robert grabs a fistfull of his hair, shoving him up against the wall.

“I told you not to fuck up,” he snarls, spit flying everywhere. “I told you to make it perfect.”

“I didn’t! I didn't fuck up!” Georgie whines, even though he knows it’s not true.

“Every single word had to be believable!” Robert continues, as if Georgie hadn’t even spoken. “If anyone, and I mean  _ anyone _ , thinks something is wrong, we are done for. We are hanging by a thread here! God,” he drops Georgie’s hair, leaving the younger boy to slump against the wall, “and here I was thinking that you couldn’t possibly fuck up in the amount of time you had.”

“I’m sorry,” Georgie whispers. “I didn’t mean to. But - But no one’s gonna notice! It was barely-” He’s silenced by knuckles against his cheekbone. It makes his ears ring and blurs his vision. It’s the distortion of his senses that makes his heart speed up, more than the actual fact he just got punched in the face.

It’s terrifying, not knowing what’s going on around him. Especially in his house. But all he can do is squeeze his eyes shut and wait for it to be over.

He presses his palms against the wall. He just needs something real. Something to ground him. Something to remind him of where he is. He focuses on the smooth, solid feel of the wall behind him, rather than the fact that Robert’s furious he’s ignoring him. He catches glimpses of his rampage - “Don’t talk back to me!” “Look what you did to my hand!” “You fucking ungrateful brat!” - but it all sounds as if he’s speaking through a dying radio.

The pain registers at the same moment his hearing returns. His eyesight returns too, but it doesn’t make much of a difference. The tears on his eyelashes still make the world around him unnaturally blurry.

“Do you understand me?” Robert snaps.

Georgie nods. “Yessir.”

“Good. Go to your room, we’ll deal with this tomorrow.”

Georgie doesn’t need to be told twice.

Once he’s in his room, all he wants is to throw on the TV and let his brother’s voice sooth him to sleep. But, unlike what he claimed in the interview, he doesn’t actually have access to past episodes. Unless he happens to catch a rerun. But, of course, he could never be that lucky.

That night, once he’s positive Robert’s asleep, he sneaks out into the kitchen.

Robert - who has read one too many articles about the danger of sleeping too near mobile devices - charges his phone and laptop in there. Georgie thinks it’s silly, but he can’t help but be grateful too. Now it’s almost too easy to sneak into his phone, even with the passcode.

Georgie doesn’t do it often, because if Robert ever found out, he’s sure to get worse than a punch to the face. But sometimes it’s nice to see what is happening outside of these walls. And tonight of all nights, he needs to know more than anything.

People are talking about his interview alright. It’s the first thing he sees when he opens Twitter. He knows people have wondered what happened to him - some had even speculated that maybe he  _ had _ died after all - but he never expected to get as much attention as he did.

There’s only one thing that seems to be outshining him.

On Beverly Marsh’s instagram there’s a video, and the thumbnail makes Georgie feel like he’s been punched in the gut.

It’s Billy. And Georgie’s used to seeing him through a screen, but this is different. He’s staring directly into the camera and, when Georgie opens it, he calls to him by name.

_ “Hi Georgie. I miss you too. I want more than ah-anything to make you happy again. B-But I can’t go back to the show. I know the real world is d-duh-dangerous, but wasn’t it dangerous when Robert Gray cut into my arm to make room for a tracking device? Or wh-when he purposefully set the Bowers Gang on me? Or has he forgotten the meaning of the word by now?” _ He grins into the camera, but it’s sharp and angry and nothing like the smiles Georgie remembers.  _ “Robert, why don’t you come out and face me? Instead of making my b-buh-baby brother do your dirty work.” _

The video cuts off, leaving Georgie alone in his all-too-quiet kitchen. The words weigh on him. Billy’s out there. He’s with Beverly Marsh. He’s  _ safe _ .

Georgie can’t let Robert find him again. Billy had always been there for him in the past, always held him when he had a hard day or defended him when older kids teased him. Now Georgie has to return the favor.

He gathers Robert’s phone, laptop, anything else that might lead him back to Billy, and slips out the backdoor.

Robert’s house is big, but the yard is even bigger, and if Georgie wants to make sure he isn’t caught, he’s going to need to go to the farthest corner he can find.

The place he decides on is near the toolshed, just underneath an old fig tree. It used to be one of Georgie’s favorite places on the whole property, second only to his own bedroom. Billy always liked figs. But one too many days missing him quickly turned it into one of his least favorite places instead.

In the toolshed, there’s an old shovel. Georgie grabs it before marching back to where he had laid the devices in a little row, just under the tree. With a final glance over his shoulder, just to make sure he hadn’t awoken Robert, he raises the shovel over his head and brings it down on the laptop with a  _ crash _ .

He repeats the motion until the laptop is a mess of parts, before turning to the cell phone.

Only once he’s positive the devices are thoroughly destroyed does he gather the pieces and chucks them over the fence.

It might not stop Robert, but it might be enough to buy them some time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YIKES sorry it took me forever to update. You would think with this whole quarantine thing I would update faster but nope! I promise, even if I update slow, this story isn't abandoned. I've got it all planned out and I promise I'll finish it.
> 
> Anyway, now y'all finally know what Georgie's been up to this whole time! And next chapter we get back to the Losers! Stay tuned to find out how Bill finally convinced Stan and the others to let him come out of hiding.
> 
> I hope you liked this chapter! Please leave a comment, I love hearing your thoughts!


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Bill?” Eddie’s voice pipes up. “Bill, where are you going?”
> 
> “Robert knows where Juh-Georgie is,” Bill says, only a foot away from the door now. “I have to-” He’s cut off by Ben stepping directly into his path. “Get ou-out of my way.”
> 
> Ben shakes his head. “You’re not thinking, Bill. We need to talk about this.”
> 
> “All we dd-duh-do is talk ah-about it!” Bill argues. “I want to do ss-suh-suh-something!”

Bill knows Stan is waiting for him to say something. He can feel his eyes soaking into his skull, burning into his brain as he searches for answers. The only problem is, Bill doesn’t know if he could give him an answer if he tried.

“You said no o-one knew where Juh-Juh-Geor-Georgie was,” he whispers.

Stan nods, still staring at him with that wide-eyed look. “I mean, no one had seen or heard from him in years.”

“Then wh-why would he suddenly come out in the oh-open?” Bill asks. “It doesn’t mm-make sense. And why would he ww-want me to go bb-buh-back there?”

“Maybe he doesn’t,” Stan suggests. “Maybe he was following a script. Most of the interviews we had to do for _The Denbrough Show_ were scripted.”  
“Georgie’s not an ah-actor,” Bill frowns.

“No, you’re not listening,” Stan says.

“Wh - Yes I am!”

Stan laughs, a natural reflex to Bill’s half horrified expression. “Just think about it, okay? There’s no reason Georgie would want you to go back there. This is the same station that the rest of us did interviews with. It makes sense that some executive - maybe even your own parents - found Georgie and coerced him to do this interview.”

Bill shuffles uncomfortably. “You think someone’s hh-huh-hur-hur-hurting him?”

Stan pauses, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “Probably not physically, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they threatened him. Robert was never above using force to get the rest of us to do what he wanted.”

“He hh-hurt you,” Bill says simply. “I ss-saw the bruise, you said he hh-huh-hit you. What's to say he ih-isn’t doing the ss-suh-same to Georgie?”

“We don’t even know if Robert has Georgie,” Stan says hurriedly. “Or that he was there-”

“Of course ww-we know he was there!” Bill cries out. “Why wouldn't Rr-Ruh-Robert be there? This is  _ his _ operation, he was puh-pruh-probably the one to write Georgie’s sc-scr-script!” Stan frowns down at the laptop. Georgie’s photo is still frozen in front of them, staring up into the camera with eyes sparkly with tears. It shatters Bill’s heart just a little bit more, and he quickly re-focuses his energy on getting an answer from his friend. “Stan?”

Stan tears his eyes away from the computer. “Sorry,” he says, not looking very sorry at all. He looks too distant to be truly sorry, too lost in thought to even know what he’s apologizing for. “I’m thinking.”

Bill nods slowly.

Stan has always seemed distant and far away when he’s thinking. He pinches his eyebrows and purses his lips, his whole face scrunching together like he’s just heard one of Richie’s particularly bad jokes. But his eyes are sharp and analytical, focused on nothing in particular. Bill’s always had a hunch that Stan can  _ see _ whatever it is he’s thinking about. Whenever he thinks too hard about anything, it’s as if he’s been transported into another plane of existence. And the only thing that can bring him back is the right answer.

And while Bill’s never been more grateful for that than now, he’s a little afraid that Stan will never find the right answer. That he’ll never come back.

Then, “Robert was probably there,” Stan says slowly, picking out his words like they’re fruit on a thorny bush. His movements have to be slow and precise, making sure not to prick himself while reaching for the delicious food. “But it doesn’t make sense for Georgie to be with him. He’s not good with kids, he hates them. Why would your parents put their son’s fate in the hands of someone who hates kids?”

Bill shrugs. “Why would they ll-luh-let a psychopath put mm-my entire life on tt-tuh-television?”

“Touche,” Stan says. “They might be shitty parents, but they still want a good life for you guys. They thought living on the set of  _ The Denbrough Show _ would make you happy. That it would make life easier. It was misguided, but they didn’t  _ want _ to hurt you.”

“But wh-wh-what does that have to do with Georgie?”

“If they don’t want to hurt you, no matter how ill intentioned they are, then they aren’t going to want to hurt Georgie,” Stan continues. “They may be, admittedly, terrible parents, but they wouldn’t put either of you in harm’s way.”

“They don’t know that Rr-Robert would huh-huh-hurt him!” Bill insists. “Do th-they know he hurt yuh-you?” Stan doesn’t answer, which is all the answer Bill needs. A moment later he’s on his feet, marching purposefully across the apartment.

“Bill?” Eddie’s voice pipes up. “Bill, where are you going?”

“Robert knows where Juh-Georgie is,” Bill says, only a foot away from the door now. “I have to-” He’s cut off by Ben stepping directly into his path. “Get ou-out of my way.”

Ben shakes his head. “You’re not thinking, Bill. We need to talk about this.”

“All we dd-duh-do is talk ah-about it!” Bill argues. “I want to  _ do _ ss-suh-suh-something!”

“Ben’s right.”

Bill wheels around to face Richie, eyes blazing furiously. He’s used to Richie having his back on almost everything, the fact that he isn’t willing to back him up on this is like a slap to the face.

“It’s dangerous,” Richie continues. “You can’t go rushing into shit just because you’re upset.”

“He doesn’t have to be rushing into anything,” Beverly says firmly. “If we actually helped him and came up with a plan-”

“What do you mean  _ if we actually helped him _ ?” Ben asks. He looks horrified, mouth agape and eyebrows drawn together. His cheeks are starting to become a dark red color, nearly dark enough to match Bev’s hair. But his eyes are what Bill can’t stop looking at. They’re dark and angry, furiously glaring at his girlfriend from across the room. Bill doesn’t think he’s ever seen Ben truly angry. It’s enough to make him want to retreat back into himself, to make him want to crawl away and hide until he’s sure he’ll be safe from Ben’s wrath. “Are you fucking kidding me? Bev, we risked everything-”

“And yet he’s still a prisoner!” Bev snaps. “You’re all keeping him trapped inside this house! Telling him what to do!”

“That’s not the same!” Mike argues. “You can’t even compare the two!”

“I think she’s right.” Eddie’s voice seems to breathe a wave of fresh air into Bill’s lungs. Eddie who, over the course of a few days, has quickly become one of Bill’s best friends in the world. Eddie who risked everything to help him. Bill can’t be more grateful to have him on his side. “We’re only keeping Bill here because  _ we’re _ scared. It’s not fair.”

Richie shakes his head. “No. No, no. We’re not - That’s not why-”

“It  _ is _ why,” Eddie insists. “What happens if he’s caught? He gets sent back to set? It’s two months there. Yeah it’ll suck, but then he can demand they set him free. It’ll be almost easier than all these hoops we’re jumping through.”

“You honestly think they’re just going to let him leave?” Richie says.

“They’re going to tighten their security,” Mike says, “find ways to make him stay.”

“They’ll do the same thing if they catch him in two months!” Eddie cries out.

Bev nods. “We need to start fighting back now. I know it won’t be easy, but delaying it won’t make it any easier.”

“It’s mm-muh-my life,” Bill says. His voice, despite the stutter, doesn’t shake. He can’t help but feel a swell of pride at that, and it pushes him to continue on. “Don’t I get a ss-say? It’s my ll-luh-life and I say we do something nn-nuh-now. I don’t ww-wuh-want to sit and hh-hide anymore.”

“Fuck, Bill, it isn’t just about you!” Richie blurts out. “The rest of us are going to be affected as well! You can’t rush into something without all of us agreeing!”

Bill opens his mouth to argue, to insist that next time maybe Richie shouldn’t hide behind the idea of  _ protecting him _ just to save his own skin. But Bev beats him to it.

“Let’s take a vote,” she says. “Majority rules. Who thinks we should start fighting back now?” Bill, Eddie, and Bev raise their hands. “And who thinks we should wait until Bill’s eighteen?” Mike, Ben, and Richie’s hands shoot into the air.

There’s only one hand missing.

“Stan?” Bill creeps closer to him. “Ah-Are you okay?”

Stan nods. Despite this, Bill can’t bring himself to believe him. Stan, by no means, looks okay. His eyes are distant and far away, his sweater pulled down over his hands as Stan picks at a loose thread.

“You’re the deciding vote,” Mike says softly.

“I - What?”

“Oh wh-whether or not we go ah-after Robert now,” Bill says. He leaves his post by the door in favor of sitting next to Stan, knees bumping and shoulders brushing. It feels safer here, like nothing can hurt him when Stan’s looking at him like that. Like he would give up his life to protect him. In some way, Bill supposes he did.

“Right,” Stan murmurs. “I - um - I don’t know. It’s risky.”

“It’s my bb-buh-bruh-brother!” Bill cries out. “ _ Please _ , Stan.”

“I know,” Stan whispers. “I know. But it’s dangerous. And making sure you stay out will be easier than breaking you out again.”

“But-”

“Bill…” Stan’s voice makes Bill slump in defeat. It’s tired and broken, the voice of someone who has tried  _ everything _ \- who has gone through hell - and still came out empty handed. “Please.”

“Ff-Fuh-Fuh-Fine.”

“Alright then,” Richie says, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife through a stick of butter. “That settles it.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. He clearly does not think this _ settles it, _ but he doesn’t voice these concerns. Instead he slumps back down in his seat, burying his nose in his phone and doing his best to help from a distance. He still thinks going head to head with Robert would be much more effective but  _ no _ , _ that’s scary, we can’t do that _ .

In Eddie’s mind, you can never reap a reward if you don’t plant the seeds. If they don’t go up against Robert themselves, they will never be able to be free from his clutches. They’ll always be his puppets, dangling from wire thin strings attached to his meaty fingers. The kind that could snap and send them plummeting to their messy, messy deaths in a split-second.

The only hope left for them is to sever the strings on their own, and to hope they don’t break any bones in the fall.

-

Across the room, Bill is still sitting silently beside Stan. He expected Stan’s answer, he knows how much Robert terrifies him, but it still stung to hear. Bill had been a sitting duck for all his life, whether he knew it or not. He had always been complacent. He’s sick of it. He wants to do  _ something _ . He wants to fight back. He wants to feel heard for once in his fucking life.

Stan must know what he’s thinking because he tears his eyes away from the computer to look up at Bill, all wide eyed and apologetic, and says, “I’m sorry. You have to understand-”

“I uh-understand perfectly fine, Stan,” Bill says softly. “You’ve tt-tuh-told me more times than I can count hh-how terrifying Rr-Robert is. I know the rr-ruh-risk.”

Stan quickly averts his gaze. The hurt on his face is clear, and it quickly makes Bill feel nauseous. He did that. He hurt him.

But he refuses to back down. If he can just get Stan to change his mind, then he can go after Georgie. Then he can help him. And that’s what really matters.

“It’s just safer this way,” Stan murmurs. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“That’s rr-really sweet, Stan,” Bill says. “But the oh-only one who should be ww-wuh-worrying about me is me.”

“That’s not true!” Stan says. His head snaps back up, and there are no apologies in his eyes this time. Now they’re all business, determined to tell Bill exactly how he’s wrong. “We’re friends. Friends care about each other. Friends worry about each other. And Richie’s right, this isn’t just your fight. Just, please, trust us?”

Except trust has nothing to do with it. Bill trusts the Losers with every fiber of his being, he would put his life in their hands a million times over. Who he doesn’t trust is Robert. Robert, who is one of the only people to currently know where Georgie Denbrough is being kept.

Still, he murmurs out a quiet, “okay,” because never would he want Stan to think he doesn’t trust him. He falls silent after that, watching quietly as Stan scrolls through article after article.

It makes Stan nervous. Sitting next to Bill, close enough that he can feel his warmth radiating off his body, but not having a word to be said between them. Not that Bill had been very talkative in the past. The taunting for his ever present stutter had been sure to shut him up quick. Although sometimes Stan wonders if anyone else knows that’s the reason for Bill’s soft spoken nature (although that nature may have taken a bit of a turn in light of recent events).

He had only brought his concerns up to Robert once - an affair he had to spend a week preparing himself for. But Robert had barely bat an eye.

_ “The show needs conflict, Stanley,” _ he had said.  _ “Besides, people love it. The story of a boy who stands tall and fights back against the bullies. Little boys need to see people like that on their televisions. Don’t you think?” _

Stan does in fact think so. Years of acting classes had drilled it into his brain. Representation in the media would reflect back onto the real world. The only problem was, to Bill it wasn’t a TV show. To Bill it was his life.

Stan can still barely stomach the idea. He wonders if he even truly understands the toll it took on his friend.

Gently, he bumps their shoulders together. “Hey. You feeling alright?”

Bill nods without a second thought. Then, after a moment to think, shakes his head. “Eh-Every-Every-th-thing’s a mm-muh-mess.”

Stan sighs. That doesn’t even describe the half of it. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.” Bill offers him a sad smile. It makes Stan’s heart crack, just an extra little splinter to go along with the already broken organ. “What huh-huh-happened ww-wasn’t your fff-fault. I know wh-why you vv-vuh-voted ah-against finding Juh-Juh-Geor-Georgie.”

Stan ducks his head, his cheeks flushing in humiliation. Maybe he was a dick for that. Hell, he definitely was. Georgie’s just a kid, he deserves better than to be hidden away once he’s no longer of any use to Robert. But they would have a better fighting chance after Bill’s birthday. There’s no reason to take any more risks than they already have.

But he doesn’t say any of that. Instead he just mumbles out another apology and tries not to think about the far away look in Bill’s eyes.

“It’s oh-okay,” Bill murmurs. Though Stan is starting to suspect that it’s very much not okay.

“We’ll find him soon,” he promises.

Bill nods. Soon. They’ll find him soon.

-

Richie still hasn’t talked to Eddie. He had been working up the courage, but now it’s nearly impossible to think about crossing the few feet that separate them. Eddie looks  _ pissed _ . Like a chihuahua whose toy has just been taken away, and chihuahuas aren’t exactly known for their friendliness in the first place. If he gets too close, he’s bound to get bitten.

It’s not like Richie’s never been on the receiving end of Eddie’s fury before. He’s not known for being the most thoughtful guy in the world, and he’s well known for having a big mouth that’s bound to get him in trouble. But this is different. He’s done more than simply saying the wrong thing or making an off-color joke at a cast party.

He thinks in another life he might find the courage inside him to talk to Eddie. To explain himself. He thinks in that life, Eddie would understand. That they would go on as if nothing had happened, as if Eddie had never been mad at all.

But this life isn’t that life. And Richie doesn’t know if Eddie will ever be able to pretend Richie hadn’t betrayed him. Because Richie knows that’s how Eddie sees it. A betrayal.

And so Richie Tozier does not talk to Eddie Kaspbrak that day. He doesn’t explain himself. And he certainly doesn’t fix anything.

But some things are simply too frightening to do. Sometimes telling someone you love how you feel is scarier than standing up in front of the whole world to carry out a lie made by a power hungry maniac. Because it doesn’t matter if every single person on the planet hates you, as long as you have that one special person by your side. But if that person hates you too, then who is there to turn to?

He forces his gaze away from Eddie, instead focusing it on his phone. He has to focus. Once he’s managed to clear his name, then  _ maybe _ he can think about talking to Eddie.

In his dazed state, he hadn’t noticed his phone shut off. It’s not a big deal, all he has to do to turn it back on is his thumbprint. What is a big deal is the website he was on seems to have reloaded. And there, in big, bulky letters, is the headline to haunt all headlines:

_ Fan Claims To Have Discovered Whereabouts Of Missing Child Star William Denbrough. _

With rising panic, Richie clicks on the article. He prays to God it’s just speculation. That someone saw someone vaguely similar to Bill and decided to sell the story for a few extra bucks. He can already see it in his head.  _ “It is suspected he’s hiding out in the busy streets of New York.” “That he’s making his way to the real Maine.” “That he was spotted at a gas station somewhere between Oregon and Washington.” _

Richie can feel his shoulders start to relax. Yes, he’s sure now that it won’t mean anything at all. He should know better than anyone, the news can be spun any direction you like. You can’t trust everything on the internet.

Unfortunately, this article was spun in the right direction.

Staring back at him is his own face. He’s wearing a grin full of teeth and has one arm around a fan, two of his fingers poking out from behind her head like bunny ears. It’s a pose he does with most of his fans - even if they mock him for it on Twitter and Tumblr - because it makes them laugh. And what better sound is there than the laughter of someone who looks up to you?

Despite the familiar pose, he can tell who this fan is immediately. It’s the fan who ran up to him as he was chasing after Eddie. As he was chasing after Eddie  _ with Bill _ .

He swears under his breath. He was sure it was dark enough. He was sure his explanation had been enough. He was sure she hadn’t  _ really _ noticed.

But he should have asked to see the photo.

Because in the background, though blurry and half hidden by the shadows, is Bill.

“Fuck,” he whispers. Then, because one fuck doesn’t fully encompass how he’s feeling, “ _ Fuck! _ ”

Mike’s peeks out from behind the couch. “Richie? Everything okay?”

Richie offers Mike a sarcastic grin. “Just peachy,” he says through his teeth.

“Okay, no need to be a dick about it,” Mike replies coolly. Richie can’t help but feel relief at his calm response. He’s known for lashing out when he’s angry, and it’s often only made his problems worse. But Mike is kind and soothing, a welcomed contrast to Richie’s own internal fury. “What’s up?”

Richie opens his mouth.

Then closes it again.

How is he supposed to explain this? The fan had been talking to  _ him _ .  _ He _ had been too lax about letting Bill walk around in the open. It’s  _ his _ fault this fan had spotted Bill.

His friends would know that. They have always been able to see right through him.

He could lie to everyone. The entire world. He could spin any tale he wanted and play it off as reality.

And he had. He had done it with a grin on his face.

Richie Tozier. Star of The Denbrough Show. It was all he had ever wanted: adoring fans, thousands of instagram followers, no problem getting a date if he were ever in need of one. But it doesn’t matter. It never mattered. Because the only people he could never lie to were the only people that really mattered - the people in this room. And looking around the shoebox of an apartment, he knows they’ll know that it’s his fault.

“Richie?” A hand on his shoulder sends him leaping nearly a foot in the air. But when he turns around, it’s just Bev and the concern in her eyes.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

Bev nudges him gently. “Are you gonna tell us what’s wrong?”

With a horrified jolt, Richie realizes the entire room is staring at him. “I - Um-”

Stan seems to recognize the panic in Richie’s eyes immediately. Before Richie can blink, Stan’s by his side, interlocking their fingers with one hand and gently rubbing his back with the other.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to.”

Richie shakes his head. “I do. I do have to.”

“No-”

“Yes!”

Stan jumps at the force of Richie’s voice. For a split second Richie can see the fear in his eyes, a red hot flash that stabs Richie’s heart and twists until he’s sure it’ll stop beating all together. But then the moment ends. Richie’s heart keeps beating. Time goes on.

“Sorry,” Richie says. “Um - I do. I do have to show you. It’s-” He swallows thickly. “It’s about Bill.”

Bill’s shoulders stiffen. “Mmm-Me?”

Richie nods. “Someone - A fan - I mean,  _ the _ fan, they took - in our photo-”

“What do you mean  _ the _ fan?” Eddie asks, his voice sharp and to the point. It sends chills down Richie’s spine.

“The one from the other night!” Richie says. “When you ran out and I went after you, and-”

“And Bill chased after you,” Eddie finishes. His tongue darts out, wetting his suddenly chapped lips. “There’s a photo? Of Bill?”

Richie nods.

“But - Bb-But it www-wuh-was dark,” Bill says. He glances around the room desperately. “Hh-How could sh-she huh-have gotten a guh-guh-good ph-photo?”

“It’s not that good,” Richie says. “But it’s enough. You can tell it’s you for sure.”

Eddie pushes himself to his feet, crossing the room to peer at the photo. Sure enough, there’s Bill. But Eddie himself can’t be seen in the photo.

He can’t help but feel a wave of relief wash over him. He knows it’s nothing compared to what will happen to Bill if he’s caught, but if Sonia Kaspbrak found out her darling boy was hanging around with Richie Trashmouth Tozier again, Eddie would be in for hell.

“Wh-What do we dd-duh-do?” Bill asks.

Bev shakes her head. “I don’t know. Robert’s going to put two and two together. He knows I live on this street.

Her eyes meet Bill’s across the room. The simple action is enough to bring Bill to his feet, enough to get him to cross the room and take a peek at the photo for himself. Mike and Ben are quick to follow, and soon all seven of them are gathered around the kitchen island. It feels weirdly intimate. Like the rest of the world has fallen away, and all that is left are them and this apartment.

“You have to leave,” Bev says. “You all need to leave. Robert can’t know any of you were here.” No one moves a muscle. “I’m serious! I’m not letting you get fucking blacklisted because of me!”

“We’re going to get blacklisted anyway.” To Bill’s shock, it’s Stan’s voice that meets Bill’s ears. He speaks slow and even, and Bill doesn’t have to ask to know he’s been thinking over his next words ever since seeing the photo. “I say we fight back. Against Robert.”

Bill’s head jerks over, staring at Stan with wide, unbelieving eyes. “Rrrr-Ruh-Ruh-Really?”

Stan nods. “Really.”

Richie lets out a shout of horor. “You can’t be serious! Stan we’ll never get out of there alive.”

“I’m not saying we see him in person,” Stan says. “That would be insane. He’s using the media as his weapon, I think we should use it as ours as well.”

Eddie leans across the island. Stan didn’t have any doubts about him being on his side, but the curiosity and excitement that shines in Eddie’s eyes is more than Stan could have ever expected. “What are you thinking?”

“We post our own video,” Stan says.

Ben shares a nervous look with Mike. “What kind of video?”

At that, Stan falters. “I’m not sure yet.”

“We can figure it out,” Bill says. For once, his voice feels steady. “I know what I want to say.”

-

An hour later, there’s still no response from Robert.

“This is bullshit,” Richie says. As much as he hates the idea of Robert seeing this and making their lives a living hell, the waiting is so much worse. “I thought he would see it immediately. Doesn’t he have tabs on all of us?”

“You would think he would have a whole team of people stalking Bev’s social medias specifically,” Mike says.

“I'm positive he does,” Ben says through a huff. “He’s tried to get her to take stuff down before.”

“Be patient,” Bev says. Despite this, she’s sure she’s refreshed her instagram at least a hundred times in the last hour. “If I see anything from him, I’ll contact you guys.”

“And ih-if he dd-duh-doesn’t respond?” Bill asks.

“We keep pushing,” Bev says. “We’re bound to catch his attention eventually.”

“But how do we know if he hasn’t seen it,” Mike frowns, “or if he’s just planning something worse?”

The group falls silent. Ever since the shutdown of the show, it’s not like any of them have had constant contact with Robert. Their relationship had always been strictly professional. Sometimes the Losers can’t help but wonder if it was less than that to Robert. If they were all just pawns in his mind, moving across the board in a worldwide game of chess.

Then, quiet as a mouse, Eddie’s voice fills the room, “I can find out.”

-

“Are you ss-sure this is a good ih-id-idea?” Bill asks, watching Eddie pace around his room. The Losers had gone their separate ways soon after hearing Eddie’s plans, and while Eddie had seemed confident in the moment, more and more of that confidence is slipping away now that the moment of truth is upon them.

“No,” Eddie admits. “But it will get us further than playing cat and mouse.” He finally stops pacing, which Bill is silently grateful for because it was starting to make him antsy, and fixes his gaze on Bill. Bill squirms, unable to help but feel like an ant under a microscope. “Are you sure you’re okay going to Stan’s?”

Bill nods. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

A grin breaks out across Eddie’s face. It’s sharp and knowing and Bill doesn’t like it one bit. “Just making sure.” Bill opens his mouth to push the issue, but Eddie cuts him off with a loud huff of air. “Alright. I’m going to ask her.” Bill nods, snapping his mouth shut. “Wish me luck.”

“Good ll-luck.”

Eddie offers him a shaky grin before spinning on his heel and marching out of his room. The rest of the house is, quite frankly, a mess. While Eddie’s room is almost overly clean, the rest of the house looks not unlike something he might see on  _ Hoarders _ . He weaves throughout unopened boxes - shit from various  _ As Seen On TV _ ads that his mother actually had the nerve to buy. Sure, she has the money. Robert pays his executive writers well. But the question isn’t  _ can she? _ It’s  _ should she?  _ And, if Eddie were to be honest, she shouldn’t.

“Mom?”

An excited squeal can be heard from the kitchen “Eddie-Bear!”

Eddie winces. He fucking hates that nickname. But he schools his face into an easy grin as he descends the stairs - entering a much less cluttered area - and turns into the kitchen. If he wants this to go well, he has to play the part of her good, sweet baby boy.

Sonia is inside, hunched over a microwave. There are two Eggos inside, two more already warm and set aside on a plate, and while Eddie can’t admit his love for the waffles, his mouth waters for the homemade pancakes Ben’s mother always sets out.

“How did you sleep, dear?” Sonia asks.

“Good,” Eddie says. “Did you sleep well, mama?”

Sonia nods and pushes the plate closer to Eddie. “Eat, eat. You know breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

Eddie doubts having the same processed waffles every morning counts as a healthy breakfast, but he doesn’t dare bring this up to his mother. He just silently takes a bite and nods as if the taste hasn’t become bland and flavorless over the months.

“So I was thinking,” Eddie says, “We haven’t had Robert over for dinner in awhile. I haven’t seen him since before the shutdown, it might be nice to catch up and see how he’s doing.”

Sonia’s eyes light up. It makes Eddie sick to his stomach. “Oh, honey, that’s a wonderful idea! Why didn’t you say anything sooner? Oh, I’ll call him as soon as we finish breakfast.”

Eddie pushes down his disgust, forcing himself to grin and bear it. “Great! It’ll be really good to see him again.”

“It will be,” Sonia says. Then, as if it’s an afterthought, though Eddie knows it’s what she’s been thinking of this whole time, “Maybe I can finally ask him about that promotion.”

“Good idea!” Eddie grins. “Maybe then you can buy more  _ As Seen On TV _ .”

Sonia narrows her eyes at him. “What?”

“It was on in the living room,” Eddie lies. “There was something I thought you might like.”

Sonia gasps quietly. “Oh, I’ll have to check! Eddie, dear, you don’t mind cooking tonight, do you? I wouldn’t want Robert to have to eat take-out.”

_ But it’s no problem for  _ me _ to eat take out every night _ , Eddie thinks bitterly.

“Sure thing,” he says instead. “I’ll go look at recipes now.”

Sonia grins, but none of it holds that motherly kindness Eddie so desperately searches for. “Thank you, Eddie-bear. You’re such a help.”

Eddie plasters his own grin onto his face. “That’s why I’m doing it. To help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit it's been a long time. I really am so sorry it took me so long to update, and I made this chapter a little longer than usual as a way to hopefully make up for it, but I really needed to take a short break for my own mental health. I've had a lot of time to think about this fic in the past few months and how I want it to play out, and I'm really excited to be continuing it. But, at the end of the day, we should all be thanking TheWeaverofWorlds for pushing me to continue. I couldn't have done it without them.
> 
> Speaking of which, we have a new fic together! Where Dreams Dwell, The Heart Calls Home. Please check it out, we've been working hard on it and we would appreciate any thoughts you have.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading this chapter! Please let me know any thoughts you have, I appreciate any feedback I get. The next chapter should be out soon - it will definitely be out sooner than this chapter was haha - and I promise it'll be a good one.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Weird,” Eddie says. “Maybe it fell down in the night?”
> 
> Robert shrugs. “Maybe.”
> 
> Eddie can’t help but think there’s more to the story, like there’s something Robert isn’t telling them. But it seems almost ridiculous to assume a broken phone has any sort of connection to Bill’s situation.
> 
> Sonia hums quietly. For a second it seems as if that’s the end of the conversation, like the phone really means nothing at all. Like it was all just meaningless small talk. Then Sonia clears her throat and asks, “So I suppose you haven’t seen the video yet.”

The initial thought of Robert setting foot in the same house Bill is currently staying in hadn’t seemed like a big deal. Bill won’t even be here during the dinner. As long as Eddie doesn’t slip up - and he won’t - he’ll be perfectly fine.

Still, the longer Bill waits, the more antsy he becomes. So lost in his own thoughts, he hardly notices his knee bouncing until Eddie has to physically reach out and grab his leg.

“Stop,” he says gently. “You’re going to be fine.”

Bill offers Eddie a thankful smile. “Wh-What about you? Are you ss-sure you’re oh-okay being alone ww-wuh-with Robert?”

“I won’t be alone,” Eddie says. “Mom will be there.”

But they both know this doesn’t mean much. As much as Sonia Kaspbrak likes to pretend she’s so high and mighty, Robert will always have power over her. If he wanted to make Eddie’s life hell, she wouldn’t have any real way to stop him. Hell, she might even help him.

But Eddie doesn’t like to think about that.

He likes to pretend his dear mother’s smothering nature would be enough to protect him from real danger, not just his friends and fresh vegetables - Sonia found a worm in her apple  _ once _ and hasn’t willingly bought fruit since. But deep down Eddie knows it isn’t true. He knows that if Robert swore something were for Eddie’s own good, Sonia would agree blindly. Even if he asked him to walk off a bridge.

“Right,” Bill murmurs. “Well, bb-buh-be careful. Oh-Okay?”

“Of course.” Eddie stretches his arms above his head as he stands, his shoulders popping quietly as he does. “I should check on dinner. I don’t want the food to burn, and Robert should be here any minute.”

“Okay,” Bill says. He glances out Eddie’s window. “Where’s Stan?”

Eddie follows his gaze, a troubled look crossing his features as he looks out over the empty street. “I don’t know. He should have been here by now.”

“I’m ss-sure he’ll be huh-here soon,” Bill says, though his voice is shaky. “You shuh-shuh-should go dd-down-downstairs.”

Eddie nods silently. He manages to twist his lips into a sort of anxious smile before slipping out of the room for good. And if Bill thought he was nervous while Eddie was in the room, it’s a whole lot worse now that he’s alone.

Every little sound seems to set him off. The distant shuffling from the kitchen. The faint rush of the cars across the street. The all-too-close squeak of the stairs as Sonia nervously paces the house.

Most of the day, Sonia tends to stay downstairs. According to Eddie, she hates going up and down the stairs, so she limits her trips between floors as much as she can. Bill can’t help but be thankful for this small saving grace. The very thought of her casually wandering into Eddie’s room terrifies him. He doesn’t know what he would do if she did. It’s not like there’s anywhere to hide. He might be able to fit inside the closet, maybe even under the bed, but nowhere he would be able to get to in time.

And so if Sonia did decide to check in on dear Eddie someday, she would find Bill sitting on the edge of the bed instead. He can see her shocked face in his head now, mouth agape and eyes popping out of their sockets. It’s almost comical. The fact that Bill still has no real clue what Sonia looks like only adds to it. He finds himself picturing an Eddie-like woman, with his kind brown eyes and soft smile.

Except that doesn’t feel right either. It feels wrong that someone who could look so much like Eddie, so much like his friend, would turn him over to Robert. Eddie’s a naturally kind soul. It seems almost cruel that his mother isn’t the same. Every story Eddie has told about his mother has been more of the same, a weaving tale about her crocodile tears and manipulative nature. Bill doesn’t understand how someone capable of such monstrosities could raise someone as selfless as Eddie.

It makes Bill sick to think about Eddie staying here with her, all alone without any normal connections to the outside world. Sure, Eddie had his friends. But he could never do anything with them. Could never experience being a teenager the way everyone else could.

But, then again, Bill supposed neither could he.

The stairs creek.

Bill freezes.

His eyes dart towards the closet. Should he get inside? Should he hide himself away? If it’s just Eddie, will he laugh at him? Or will he understand Bill’s fears? Will he applaud Bill for thinking ahead?

The footsteps disappear into Sonia’s bedroom.

Bill relaxes.

The only thing worse than that dreadful creak of the stairs, is the doorbell that rings throughout the house only a moment later.

It’s high pitched and seems to last forever, piercing Bill’s eardrums until he’s sure they will burst. It’s the most awful sound he’s ever heard. And maybe that’s fitting, seeing as who’s behind the door.

The very thought of Robert makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

Bill was supposed to be gone by now. He was never supposed to be in the same house as Robert, was never supposed to be this close to him.

He glances desperately out the window. Where is Stan?

“Eddie!” Sonia squeals. The stairs shriek in protest as she runs down them. “Is dinner ready?”

“Yeah, ma!” Eddie calls back. “I’m just plating it now!”

Bill can hear the distant sound of a door opening. It creaks in protest as it does, as if the house itself knows something is wrong here.

“Sonia!” a low, rumbling voice echoes its way up the stairs. Bill can’t help but slip off the bed and tip-toe closer to the door. He presses his ear up against it, desperate to hear more of the conversation. “How are you?”

_ This _ is the voice of the man that had made his life hell.  _ This _ is the voice of the man that had tortured him for years on end.  _ This _ is the voice of the man who hurt his friends.

It’s strange. He sounds almost...normal.

The very thought sends a shiver down Bill’s spine. How can someone like that appear normal?

“I’m good,” Sonia chirps. “I’m so happy you agreed to come for dinner. Please, come in, come in.”

Bill presses himself closer to the door. He needs to hear more. He needs to know more. He needs to-

_ Clang! _

Bill spins around just in time to see a pebble fall away from the window. Trying to ignore the dissatisfaction swirling in his gut, Bill peels himself away from the door and crosses the room to peer out said window.

Stan is standing on the ground. He’s looking up at Bill with a wide smile, one arm raised in a silent wave. Bill can’t help but wave back.

All thoughts of Robert fall away when faced with the idea of spending time with Stan. This is going to be the first time they’re alone together -  _ really _ alone together - and Bill can’t deny the way his heart stutters at the thought. For once, everything they say and do will be between them and only them. No one else has to know.

Without a second thought, he slides the window open and slips out.

-

As soon as Robert steps inside the house, he’s bombarded by a fussing Sonia. She snatches his coat straight out of his hands, hanging it on the coat rack to his left, and ushers him into the dining room.

“Eddie and I have been preparing something really special for you,” she grins. “Haven’t we, Eddie-bear?”

“Yeah!” Eddie calls back, trying to push back his bitterness as he thinks about the entire day he’s spent  _ alone _ in the kitchen. “I’m sure you’ll like it.”

He takes a moment to admire his work. He’s not a bad cook when he follows the directions, but it’s so much work and, God, it takes so much time. Eddie can’t imagine having to do this every night.

He supposes that’s why his mother constantly insists on take out for dinner. Still, he can’t deny the frustration building in his stomach at the idea. For someone who claims to care about his health so much, she sure has a funny way of showing it.

Pushing that to the back of his head, he scoops up two of the plates and marches out into the dining room. He plasters a grin onto his face at the sight of Robert.

“Hi Mister Gray,” he smiles. “I hope you like chicken.”

“I love chicken,” Robert says. He chuckles quietly. “And, please, call me Robert. We’ve been over this, Eddie.”

Eddie can’t help but flush bashfully. “Right, sorry.” He sets down the bowls. “I’ll be right back.”

He darts back into the kitchen to grab his own plate, and when he returns he finds the adults already seated at the table. Sonia is sitting in her usual seat, pointing towards the TV - which for once in her life is turned off. But Robert is sitting at the head of the table. He looks like a king sitting there, making himself comfortable in Eddie’s own home.

But Sonia doesn’t seem bothered by it, so Eddie does his best to appear unbothered as well. He sits across from his mother. Usually he sits one seat over, so Sonia can better see her soap operas, but he doubts Robert would understand or appreciate that today. And if he wants to get any information out of him, he’s going to have to keep him happy.

“I have to apologize for my late response,” Robert says. “My phone broke the other day, I haven’t had any way to contact anyone until early today.”

“Oh?” Sonia says, feigning interest. “That’s terrible. What happened?”

Robert stabs at his chicken. For a moment he doesn’t answer, too invested in carving apart the bird’s flesh to give Sonia Kaspbrak a reasonable answer. Then, “I’m not sure. I woke up and it was completely shattered. Strangest thing.”

“Weird,” Eddie says. “Maybe it fell down in the night?”

Robert shrugs. “Maybe.”

Eddie can’t help but think there’s more to the story, like there’s something Robert isn’t telling them. But it seems almost ridiculous to assume a broken phone has any sort of connection to Bill’s situation.

Sonia hums quietly. For a second it seems as if that’s the end of the conversation, like the phone really means nothing at all. Like it was all just meaningless small talk. Then Sonia clears her throat and asks, “So I suppose you haven’t seen the video yet.”

Eddie’s breath catches in his throat.

_ This is what we’ve been waiting for,  _ he reminds himself. And yet he can’t shake the feeling that something is about to go terribly wrong.

This is the moment of truth. When Robert finally finds out where Bill really is. Where the Losers find out whether or not they’ve made the greatest mistake of their lives.

Eddie watches carefully as Robert’s eyebrows furrow, crinkling in the middle and seemingly pulling his whole face along with them. “What video?”

Sonia gasps, as if horrified that Robert has not yet seen it. Eddie knows she’s secretly pleased to be the one showing him.

“It’s about Bill,” Sonia says. “Poor boy is so confused. Beverly Marsh snatched him up, filled his head with lies.”

Robert growls, a low, guttural sound from the back of his throat that makes Eddie’s skin crawl. “I knew that bitch had something to do with this. I should have never hired her in the first place, she was bad news from the start.”

Sonia tuts disapprovingly. “Poor girl is desperate for attention. If only Bill had fallen into Eddie-bear’s lap. He would have set him straight. Would have returned him right back to his home. Isn’t that right, dear?”

Eddie swallows thickly. The sudden feeling of guilt eating him up, first gnawing at the inner lining of his stomach and then bursting through to eat its way back to sunlight, is all too much.

“Right,” he says, suddenly all too interested in his plate. He’s barely eaten any of it, choosing instead to pick at it with his fork.

If he were to look up, he would have caught the suspicious look in Robert’s eye. He would have noticed the way Robert’s eyes rake over Eddie, picking up his hesitant body language. Would have noticed the downward tug of Robert’s lips as Eddie’s wheezing starts to take over.

But he doesn’t look up. And all he notices is his mother’s hand pushing his inhaler closer, which he snatches up gratefully. He shoves the mouthpiece between his lips and pushes down hard. Once. Twice. Three times.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I - I’m just - I hate thinking about Bill being lost out there.”

Sonia coos quietly. “Don’t apologize, dear. Eddie’s always been so empathetic. Isn’t he the sweetest?”

Robert grins, any trace of his suspicious nature washed away. “He sure is.” His eyes linger on Eddie for only a moment longer before he turns to Sonia, that television grin never leaving his face. “You had a video you were going to show me?”

“Oh!” Sonia chirps, any thoughts of Eddie wiped clean from her mind. “Yes! Hang on, just let me…” She produced her phone out of her purse. The shiniest, newest iPhone she could afford. She brushes off any comments she gets as if she didn’t know it was the nicest version when she bought it. But judging by the way she waves it around any chance she gets, Eddie has no doubts that she knew exactly what she was doing.

She pulls up Bev’s Instagram and clicks on the latest video. Bill’s video.

Eddie’s eyes never leave Robert’s face. He’s determined to get clues from this man. Determined to have something useful to report back. But Robert’s face is completely blank.

He watches the video silently, completely void of emotion. It’s almost worse than the fury Eddie was expecting. He can deal with anger. He’s been around his mother long enough to know how to sweet talk someone into at least temporarily forgetting what made them so angry in the first place. What he can’t deal with is not having any idea what someone’s thinking. That’s when you get blindsided.

After the video, Robert leans back and hums thoughtfully. The casual nature of it all makes the hair on the back of Eddie’s neck stand on end. This can’t be right. There’s no way this is right. Robert would never let Bill slip through his fingers so easily.

Clearly, Sonia was expecting more of a reaction as well. She looks almost disappointed, phone still held out in front of Robert and eyes glued to his face.

But she doesn’t dare break the silence. Robert has always known how to hold a room, has always known how to make himself the center of attention. Almost as if he can somehow make everyone else  _ want _ him to be the center of attention.

The Kaspbraks are no different.

Every twitch of Robert’s lips has Eddie’s heart leaping, expecting to hear Robert’s thoughts any moment now. But every time, the outcome is always the same. Silence.

At some point, Eddie simply can’t take it anymore. He knows he’s not supposed to interrupt Robert’s thoughts. Everyone knows that. But the silence is making him want to rip his own skin off, making him want to dig his nails in and pull until every inch of himself is shredded on the floor.  
And what could Robert do to him that’s worse than that? What could he do - _really_ do - that’s anything worse than what Eddie could do to himself?

Still, Eddie’s voice shakes as he asks, “What are you gonna do?”

Robert shrugs. “Could get a warrant to search Ms. Marsh’s apartment,” he says simply.

“I always knew that Marsh girl was bad news,” Sonia pipes up. “Didn’t I, Eddie-dear? What was it I always said? I always said, that girl is going to end up on the pole-”

“Mom!” Eddie cries out, horrified. Sonia merely shrugs and sips her wine.

“Should probably search all the actors' houses,” Robert muses, completely ignoring Sonia’s statement. “You know how actors are. They like to bond on set.” He grins sharply. “Eddie, you’re still in contact with some of them, aren’t you?”

Eddie’s hand tightens around his fork. “I - I don’t - How did you - What - What do you - I mean - I’m not sure-”

“Eddie doesn’t talk to those people anymore,” Sonia says flippantly.

Sonia seems to think that’s the end of the conversation, and immediately starts digging into her chicken again. But Robert’s eyes never leave Eddie.

“Really?” he says. His voice is smooth as butter, relaxed enough that Sonia never looks up from her dinner, but something in his eyes sends shivers down Eddie’s spine. “I remember you being awfully close with them. Especially Tozier.”

Sonia makes a disgusted noise in the back of her throat. “That boy. You heard what he did, didn’t you?”

“Those are just rumors, mama,” Eddie says meekly. He half expects Robert to push back, to insist that Richie really did mean to hurt Bill. But he stays silent, as if not even hearing a word Sonia says.

“Well then,” he says, “if you don’t talk to them anymore, then you won’t mind helping me with something.”

Eddie suddenly feels as if the air has been knocked out of him, and he holds back the urge to go scrambling for his inhaler again.

“Oh, that’s a wonderful idea,” Sonia squeals. “You would love to help, wouldn’t you, Eddie-bear?”

“Help with what exactly?” Eddie asks.

Sonia reaches across the table to swat his arm. “Don’t be rude, dear! Mister Gray needs your help. I raised you better than to ignore someone in need.”

“Sorry,” Eddie says automatically. “I just - I don’t think I understand what you’re asking. Why - Why would you need my help?”

“Because,” Robert says, “if there’s anyone Beverly would be willing to talk to, it would be you. She’s not going to trust anyone else in the crew.”

“What about the actors?” Eddie blurts out. He regrets it immediately, but now that it’s out, he has no choice but to keep going. “Wouldn’t she trust them? I mean - She worked with them.”

“Sure,” Robert says. “But  _ I _ don’t trust the actors. If I know anything, they’re working with her.”

Eddie feels his heart sink to the bottom of his stomach. Robert knows. Of course he knows. Was Eddie really stupid enough to think they could evade him completely? Robert’s smart, they’re lucky they could hide from him for as long as they did.

But it’s okay. Eddie can fix this. That’s why he’s here, that’s why he planned this dinner.

“Alright,” he says. “I would be happy to help.”

A grin widens across Robert’s face. It’s big and sharp, reminding Eddie of a shark right before it strikes its prey. It makes Eddie’s stomach curdle uneasily. He can’t help but think he’s misstepped, and that he’s about to fall directly into the jaws of the beast.

-

Eddie had been sure that dinner would be the worst part of the day. And yet, here he is, sitting in the passenger seat of Robert Gray’s car, A/C blowing gently against his face and shitty pop music playing quietly from the radio. Richie would throw a fit if Eddie ever played music that softly.

_ “Music is meant to be enjoyed, Eds,” _ he would say.  _ “What’s the point of playing anything at all if you’re not going to absolutely blast it from the speakers?” _

Under any other circumstance, the thought would make Eddie smile. But today it only makes Eddie feel worse, if that were even possible. What was the last thing he said to Richie? Nothing nice, he’s sure.

He’s suddenly taken over by the urge to fling himself out of the car door and run all the way to Richie’s house. To scramble in through his window and use every last breath to tell Richie that he’s sorry. To take back every rude thing he’s said to Richie the past few days. No. Every rude thing he’s said to Richie  _ ever _ . Every rude thing, he wants Richie to know he didn’t mean any of it.

But then they make a turn down a dark, secluded road and any hope Eddie had that this was all just a bad dream vanishes.

“So where is he right now?”

“Who?” Eddie asks, hoping Robert can’t tell that every drop of blood in his veins has frozen over.

“Bill,” Robert says simply, as if the casual nature of it all doesn’t send shivers down Eddie’s spine.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” he says quietly. “I thought we all agreed he was at Beverly Marsh’s house.”

Robert chuckles mirthlessly. It does nothing to ease Eddie’s anxiety. “I know you’re not that stupid. You wouldn’t leave him there. C’mon, who has he been staying with? Ben? Mike? Richie?” His eyes never leave the road, never even glance Eddie’s direction, and yet he still somehow manages to pinpoint the exact moment Eddie tenses up. “You don’t like that, do you? I hope Richie hasn’t managed to coerce Bill into sleeping with him yet. I sure would hate for Bill to have to fake losing his virginity all over again for the cameras.”

“It’s fucked up that you were gonna make Bill do that,” Eddie whispers. “And - And it’s fucked up you made up those rumors about Richie. You know they’re not true.”

Robert shrugs. “He knew what would happen if he made me mad.”

“You dragged his name through the mud,” Eddie says.

“He ruined my show.”

Robert drives through an open gate, revealing a, frankly, enormous house looming above them. It makes Eddie nauseous just looking at it. He could fit at least twenty versions of his own house inside, and still have room for more.

What one person needs that much space?

Robert pulls into the driveway and turns off the ignition, cutting off Taylor Swift mid-song. And if Eddie thought before was bad, it’s nothing compared to now. Because now Robert’s looking at him. And there’s nothing that makes Eddie feel more vulnerable than the icy intensity of Robert Gray’s eyes. “How did you do it?”

There’s no question about what he’s asking, but Eddie will be damned if he gives in that easily. “How do you even know I was a part of it? Maybe you’re accusing me of something I didn’t even do. Innocent until proven guilty, remember?”

Robert hums noncommittally. “I suppose so. I guess it could have been anyone’s inhaler back there.”

Eddie feels his breathing catch. “What?”

“C’mon, I answered your question,” Robert leans back in his seat, “now it’s your turn. How did you get him out?”

Eddie’s eyes flicker down to the ground. He can’t believe he got caught so easily. This was supposed to be his heroic moment. His one chance to prove to the group that he was capable of making these decisions, that he hadn’t completely fucked up their plans. “I just had to figure out where all the cameras were. Then I could sneak on set and tell him without being seen.”

“Huh. Clever.”

Robert pops open the driver’s seat door, which Eddie takes as his cue to get out as well. He has never been so thankful to leave a car in his life. Sure, driving with his mother is fucking awful. And, yeah, driving with Richie can be terrifying sometimes. But nothing has ever come close to this.

He follows Robert inside silently, praying this is the end of the conversation. He knows it’s not, knows there must be more Robert is planning. There’s no way he would give up so easily. Still, a boy can dream.

“C’mon,” Robert says. “There’s someone I think you need to meet.”

The house, Eddie can’t help but notice as he follows Robert throughout the weaving hallways, is hollowly impersonal. It’s beautifully decorated, clearly a professional had come though and perfected every last inch. But Eddie can’t spot more than a few photos that have anything to do with Robert’s personal life. And even those seem to be meticulously chosen for nothing more than to match the aesthetic of the house.

Finally, Robert stops in front of a crisp, white door. Not that Eddie knows how Robert knows it’s the right door. They all look the same.

But, in a moment, the doors become the farthest thing from Eddie’s mind.

“Georgie?” Robert knocks firmly. “I need you to come out here.”

  
Eddie feels his stomach drop to the bottom of his feet. Georgie had been here all along? All the time he had spent telling Bill how they had no clue where Georgie had gone, he had been right under their noses the whole time. Albeit, he had also probably been in the worst possible place he could be.

For a moment it seems too absurd to be true. But then the door opens and, sure enough, there’s Georgie Denbrough.

Having never met him in person, the last time Eddie had seen the kid had been right before his on-screen “death.” He almost feels like he’s staring at a different person now. And it’s not just his age, or the fact that he’s grown a foot or two in the last few years. His eyes seem empty. They’re the eyes of someone who had their entire life ripped out from under them, and had no one to come and fight for them. They’re the eyes of someone who had given up hope that someone ever would come a long time ago.

And while he clearly doesn’t think of Eddie as the help he’s dreamed of, it’s obvious he’s still surprised by the sight of them.

“Hi,” he says meekly.

“Hi,” Eddie says, having to choke the word out. It’s like talking to a ghost. A ghost with a plush turtle in his hands and a bruise painted across his face.

The sight of it makes Eddie’s heart clench painfully. Is this really the life the world had condemned him to?

“Georgie,” Robert says smoothly, “Eddie here knows where your brother is.”

Georgie eyes Eddie curiously. “You do?”

Eddie opens his mouth, but barely has time to make a sound before Robert is continuing, “Mhm. But he’s being difficult and won’t tell me.”

“Oh.”

Which is just about the vaguest thing Georgie could say. Eddie wants to reach out and shake him.  _ Who the hell’s side are you on? _

But that’s not fair. Georgie’s just a scared kid. And, if Eddie were to be honest with himself, he doesn’t know if he’s much more than that himself.

“I can’t tell you,” Eddie says softly. “Bill doesn’t - He doesn’t deserve that. Not again.”

“You  _ can _ tell me,” Robert says. “You just  _ won’t _ .” His lips twist up, mutilating his face into that shark like grin he seems to like so much. “But don’t worry, I know you will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awe fuck guys, sorry. Things just keep getting worse for the Losers. But next chapter will be entirely Stan and Bill, so maybe, just maybe, you'll have some soft moments to look forward to.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Please feel free to leave a comment, I appreciate your thoughts and feedback more than you guys know!


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan smiles gently, the kind of smile that makes Bill certain his heart is going to burst, and drops his hands. Bill’s arms feel cold without them and for a single absurd moment, he considers reaching out and taking Stan’s hand. He can’t help but wonder how Stan’s fingers would feel between his own. A part of him is certain they would fit perfectly, like the missing piece to a nearly completed puzzle.
> 
> But then the moment passes, and Bill shoves his hands into his pockets instead.

Bill’s feet hit the ground with a soft  _ thud _ . Immediately, Stan reaches out to steady him, fingers curling gently around Bill’s biceps.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says. “There was unexpected traffic.”

“That’s ah-alright,” Bill says, trying not to think too hard about Stan’s lingering hands.

Stan smiles gently, the kind of smile that makes Bill certain his heart is going to burst, and drops his hands. Bill’s arms feel cold without them and for a single absurd moment, he considers reaching out and taking Stan’s hand. He can’t help but wonder how Stan’s fingers would feel between his own. A part of him is certain they would fit perfectly, like the missing piece to a nearly completed puzzle.

But then the moment passes, and Bill shoves his hands into his pockets instead.

“You don’t mind meeting my parents, do you?” Stan asks as he leads Bill to his car, an unsuspecting blue Fiat. Short and squat, it’s just about the farthest thing from what Bill had in mind for one of the most beloved actors of their time.

“Your car ll-luh-looks like a bb-buh-bug,” Bill says dumbly.

He flushes red, half worried he had upset Stan somehow. But Stan just laughs, the sound ringing through the air like wind chimes. “Yeah, I guess it does.” He fixes Bill with a wide grin as he grabs the handle and opens the passenger seat door. Bill gets in without a second thought. “My parents. Are you okay with meeting them?”

Bill nods. “I’ve mm-met them. Rr-Ruh-Remember?”

Stan laughs again, softer this time. “No, my  _ real _ parents.”

He shuts the door. The sound reverberates throughout the car but Bill barely hears it. Of course the couple he met weren’t Stan’s real parents. They were just actors, playing the roles they had been given. Still, the idea makes his head spin. Just one more thing to add to the list of things that make his life painfully bizarre.

The car sputters to a start, yanking Bill out of his thoughts. He glances over at Stan, who he finds smiling sheepishly at him from his place behind the wheel.

“I need to take it into the shop,” he murmurs. “Um - It’s a bit of a drive to my place, I hope you don’t mind.”

Bill shakes his head.”I don’t mm-muh-mind.”

“Cool.” Stan flashes Bill a quick grin before returning his eyes to the road. “You can pick whatever music you want. But I’m expecting you to have better taste than Richie.”

It’s not like Bill doesn’t know what kind of music he likes, his room back on set was lined with all his favorite records and cassette tapes. But the music off set is different. Bill hasn’t recognized a single artist Eddie has played. Not to mention, all of his music is on his phone. (Which Bill is still struggling to recognize as such. How can all of that shit fit into such a small box?)

Luckily, Stan must pick on his struggle because he reaches over to the center console and taps the screen with his finger. It springs to life, a million shiny buttons with a million different functions staring up at them.

“This is the radio,” Stan says, keeping his eyes on the road as he points. “Use this button to scroll.”

Bill flushes. “Th-Thank yuh-you.”

As it turns out, there are a million more radio stations in real life than there are on set. Which, Bill supposes, should have been expected. Everything on  _ The Denbrough Show _ had to be meticulously pre-approved by multiple staff members, before moving on to get the stamp of official approval from Robert. All just to make sure there wasn’t a single slip up.

“There’s ss-so much mm-muh-music,” Bill grumbles.

Stan barks out a soft laugh. “Yeah, Robert only wanted music that had been released the same year it was supposed to be on set. A bit pretentious, if you ask me. How would you know whether or not Bruno Mars released  _ Grenade _ in 1995?”

Despite his frustration, Bill can’t help but let out a laugh of his own. “Wh-When did he release it?”

“I don’t know!” Stan says, which only causes Bill’s laughter to bubble up more until it’s spilling out of his throat and echoing around the interior of the car.

“You dd-don’t know?”  
“No! And that’s why it’s so ridiculous! He could have made up an entire, like, other universe. But did he? No! He just tried to relive the 80’s but worse.”

“Wh-Why did he ss-suh-set the whole sh-show in the pp-puh-past?” Bill asks, a few lingering giggles still slipping through his lips. “Why nn-nuh-not just set it in the pp-pruh-present?”

Stan’s laughter patters off, replaced by a thoughtfully stoic expression that chills Bill to the bone. “He claims it’s because your parents wanted to relive their glory days, which I’m sure did have something to do with it. But really it’s because he didn’t want to run the risk of any of the technology fucking up.”

Bill cocks his head curiously. “Ff-Fucking up how?”

“He would have to put up safety walls,” Stan says, “to make sure you don’t accidentally access a website or a Tweet or anything else that references the show. It would be a lot of coding. Maybe even require him to build an entirely new social media, one used strictly in the show. And if, somehow, those safety walls broke - and they would, because how trustworthy is technology, really? - there would be nothing to stop you from finding the truth in the matter of minutes.”

Bill falls silent. He was the star of the show, and yet none of it was built for his comfort. Not one part of it was built out of, at the very least, pity. It was all just one giant cage, meticulously put together so he would never find the key.

Stan watches him out of the corner of his eye, feeling dread settle in the pit of his stomach. He knew bringing up the specifics of  _ The Denbrough Show _ would upset Bill. He would be surprised if it ever didn’t. But he had promised himself he wouldn’t lie to him anymore. Not after everything he had been complacent in.

Stan makes sure the car has rolled to a full stop, red light shining down on them like a disapproving eye from the heavens, before reaching over towards the center console. He switches the radio off, trying not to think too hard about how nervous the silence makes him as he waits for his bluetooth to connect.

He can see Bill’s eyes start to clear as the familiar lyrics wash over him.

“We don’t hh-have to luh-listen to th-this,” he murmurs.

Stan shrugs. “I like it. A lot of new music isn’t exactly my taste.”

A gentle smile spreads across Bill’s face. Admittedly, the familiar music makes him more comfortable. Something he can recognize in this otherwise confusing world.

So he leans back, makes himself comfortable, and tries not to think too hard that Stan has all of his favorite songs ready to play at a moment's notice. Instead he lets his eyes flutter shut and wonders if The Psychedelic Furs’  _ Love My Way _ could be the soundtrack for his new life.

-

The inside of Stan’s house smells mouthwateringly of spices, the scent wafting lazily out from the kitchen. Just through the door, Bill can hear the sounds of laughter. It sounds like wind chimes in the summer, bright and full of joy, just like Stan's own laugh. The thought warms him to his core.

Stan just smiles gently and nods his head towards the kitchen, gesturing for Bill to follow him. Sure enough, a couple with matching smiles and sparkling eyes are just through the doorway. Stan’s father is bent down in front of the oven, peering inside, as Stan’s mother scrubs at the dishes in the sink.

Everything about them is so genuine, it makes Bill’s heart hurt. He’s harshly reminded of his own parents, who were always kind towards him, but never quite warm and comforting in the way that he longed for.

“Mom,” Stan pipes up. “Dad. This is Bill.”

Stan’s mother grins warmly at them. “Hello, dear. I would give you a hug but my hands are all wet. It’s nice to finally meet you, we’ve heard so much about you.”

Stan flushes. Bill pretends not to notice.

“It’s nice to mm-muh-meet you too,” Bill says.

“Do you like enchiladas?” Stan’s father asks.

Bill nods. “I huh-haven’t had them a ll-lot.”

“I think you’ll like these,” says Stan’s father. “They’re made with sweet potatoes.”

“They sm-smell good,” Bill says.

“Donald’s a great cook,” pipes up Stan’s mother. “I’m just about useless with big meals like this, I burn nearly everything.”

“When I was thirteen she burnt my birthday cake,” Stan says.

Donald barks out a laugh, though there’s not a trace of malice in his voice. “I had to make an emergency run to Safeway, just so we had a cake for the party.”

“Richie Tozier insisted on helping make the cake,” says Stan’s mother with a soft, sort of nostalgic smile. “He tried so hard to insist the cake wasn’t completely ruined. He’s such a sweet boy.”

“Richie’s a menace, mom.”

Stan’s mother rolls her eyes fondly. “Stanley.” She grabs a nearby dish towel, drying off her hands before making her way over to Bill and Stan. “You know Richie, don’t you?”

Bill nods. “Yuh-Yeah. Richie’s nice.”

Stan’s mom hums softly. “Stan, dear, do you mind setting the table?”

“Is there ah-anything I can do tt-to hh-huh-help, Mrs. Uris?” Bill asks as Stan scampers off to find their plates.

“Oh, please, call me Andrea. And you’re our guest, Bill, you don’t have to worry about any of that. Why don’t you go sit down? Dinner should be ready soon.”

Sure enough, a few minutes later they are all seated around the dinner table, Stan to Bill’s right and Stan’s parents across from them. Something about it is inherently homey. Bill can’t help but think he feels more at home here than he ever did on the set that was built for him.

“Thank yuh-you for this,” Bill says, gesturing to the still steaming hot enchilada on his plate. “And ff-for letting me s-stuh-stay here for the night.”

“Oh, of course,” Andrea says easily. “You’re always welcomed here. Anything to thank you for how kind you’ve been to Stan all these years.”

Bill glances at Stan out of the corner of his eyes. A faint pink tinge has risen up on his cheeks and he’s got his sweater sleeves between his fingers again, forming little sweater paws over his hands. Bill can’t help but think it’s just a little adorable.

“Stan mm-means a lot to me,” Bill says. He forces himself to keep eye contact with Andrea as he talks, though the pressure only makes the heat in his cheeks ten times warmer. “I’m rr-ruh-really glad he went oh-on the show.”

Andrea tenses up at the mention of the television show, and upon further inspection, it becomes clear that the discomfort has spread to the rest of the Uris family as well.

“Ss-Sorry,” Bill says automatically. “I didn’t - I didn’t mm-mean.”

“It’s okay,” Stan says, voice gentle. He twirls his fork nervously. Around and around and around _and_ _around_. “We don’t usually talk about the show.”

Bill glances between them curiously. “Wh-Why not?”

Donald and Andrea share an apprehensive look. Bill can almost see the unspoken conversation between them. It makes his heart ache, almost desperately wishing for someone he could talk to that easily.

“It didn’t start out that bad,” Donald says. His voice is slow, like he’s cherry picking his words to pick the exact picture he wants to paint. “It was Stan’s first big acting gig. We weren’t too sure about the whole actor thing at first, ya know. It’s risky. But Richie had started going to auditions and Stan begged us for months to let him go too. Eventually we decided,  _ what’s the harm _ , and started to take him.”

Bill glances at Stan curiously. “You knew Rr-Ruh-Richie before ff-film-filming?”

Stan nods. “We’ve been friends since we were born.”

“Maggie and I went to college together,” Andrea says. “Stan and Richie would have been forced to hang out no matter what. It’s just a blessing that they like each other.”

Bill snorts. It’s sort of cute to think about Stan and Richie as kids, braving the brand new world together.

“Stan wanted to be just like Richie as a kid,” Donald says.

“Not  _ just _ like Richie,” Stan insists.

“Just like Richie,” Donald repeats, a teasing smile on his lips. “Anyway, he had only done a few commercials and the odd one-liner in some shit television show before we got the call that he had gotten the part on  _ The Denbrough Show _ .”

“They liked Stan and Richie’s chemistry,” Andrea says. “Said it would be believable on screen.”

Donald nods. “They had to go through this whole training before they were allowed to actually work. Took over a month. They finally let everyone on set for the first day of school. I wasn’t sure about letting Stan learn there, but they assured me that all the teachers were the best they could get.”

“Donald and I were both working at the time,” Andrea says, “But I remember watching it during my break. They say they didn’t choose your friends for you, that they wanted your friendships to be as authentic as possible, but there were certain kids they encouraged to strike up a conversation with you. They knew who they wanted in front of the camera.”

Bill has half a mind to ask Stan if their first conversation was scripted. Or  _ encouraged _ . But he keeps his mouth shut. He doesn’t even remember their first conversation anymore, and yet the thought that it might have all been fabricated leaves a sour taste in his mouth. He doesn’t think he wants any sort of confirmation on that front.

“Things seemed fine at first,” Andrea continues. “Great, even. But then Robert decided the bullies needed to be a bigger part of the show, and Stan started to come home with bruises every night. And it only got worse once Robert decided he needed to be more involved. He claimed he wanted to be closer to the actors working with you but-”

“But he just scared the shit out of me,” Stan mumbles.

“We almost pulled Stan out,” Donald says. “But he wanted to stay. It seemed cruel to take him away from all his friends.”

For some reason, that feels like a punch to the gut. What would Bill have done if Stan had mysteriously disappeared one day? If he had just stopped showing up to school, much like Bev had. The thought pains him to even think about. Stan was the glue that held him together through so much of his life.

And, yet, Bill had been the rope that sealed Stan’s fate, that kept him isolated from the rest of the world.

-

“You didn’t tt-tell me you were going to ll-leave the show,” Bill says, plopping himself down on the bed as Stan shuts the door behind them.

“There was no point in telling you,” Stan says.

Bill wants to tell him that it would have been okay if he left, that he wouldn’t have held it against him. But that would be a lie. He knows it would have torn him up inside. He knows it would have been ten times worse than when Bev left.

Instead he says, “I’m glad you didn’t leave.”

“Me too,” Stan says, voice so quiet Bill can barely hear him. “I’m really glad I didn’t leave too.”

“You know, Richie tt-tuh-told me,” Bill blurts out. “That you ww-were originally supposed to bb-be my bb-buh-boy-boyfriend.”

Stan flushes. “Richie has a big mouth.”

“But it’s tt-tr-true?” Bill asks. Before he knows it, he’s back on his feet, advancing slowly on the other boy.

Stan hesitates before he nods. His curls flop into his eyes, and, without thinking, Bill reaches out to tuck them behind his ear. “Yeah, it’s true. Is that - Is that okay?”

Bill smiles gently. “Wh-Why wouldn’t it be oh-okay?”

“I - I don’t know,” Stan shrugs pathetically. “I just thought - I dunno - Maybe you would be disappointed.”

Bill shakes his head, unable to stop a soft laugh from slipping past his lips. “That’s rr-ridiculous.”

“No, it’s not,” Stan says softly. “Because - Because it wasn’t acting for me. Bill, I  _ begged _ them to give me that role. I really liked you, I had for a long time. I think everyone knew. It seemed like I had it in the bag. But then Sonia caught wind of everything Richie and Eddie were doing together and decided to put a stop to it.” Stan shrugs. “I probably wouldn’t have been able to work up the nerve to ask you out anyway. Richie’s better at that stuff than I am.”

“I ww-would’ve said yes to you,” Bill whispers. “For the rr-ruh-record.

Stan sucks in a sharp breath. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“What if I asked you now?”

“You sh-should ask and ff-fuh-find out.”

But rather than let Stan ask, Bill closes the gap between them and gently pushes his lips against Stan’s. Stan immediately melts into the kiss, one hand coming up to clutch at Bill’s shoulder while the other loops a finger through Bill’s belt loop, using the leverage to pull him closer.

Stan’s lips are soft and pillowy, practically begging to be kissed. Bill doesn’t know how he held out as long as he did. But, as it is, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to go back. Now that he knows what it’s like to kiss Stanley Uris, to have him to himself, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to kiss someone else ever again.

His hands move to rest on Stan’s hips, pressing him up against the door and pinning him in place with his body. The soft whimper Stan lets slip in response makes Bill’s head go fuzzy, and he can’t help but nip at Stan’s lower lip before he starts to pull away.

Stan chases his lips as he goes, but quickly slumps back against the door, breathing heavy and lips puffy. “So I guess that’s a yes.”

Bill laughs brightly, swooping down to peck Stan’s lips one more time. “Yuh-Yeah. That’s a yes.”

“And to think we could have been doing this for years if Sonia hadn’t fucked everything up.”

“I dunno,” Bill says with a little shrug. “I’m kind of glad we figured things out now. When there was no one else to see it.”

Stan smiles gently. “Yeah, me too.”

He leans forward again, lips only centimeters away from Bill’s, when his phone starts to buzz. Bill groans in frustration.

“Ignore ih-it,” he pouts.

“Just let me see who it is,” Stans says with a little laugh. But his face goes grave as soon as he sees the name on top. “Eddie? Are you okay?”

“ _ Yeah, I’m okay, _ ” Eddie’s voice floats through the phone. “ _ Robert just left. I was just calling to give you guys some updates. _ ”

“Oh, yeah!” Stan says. He wriggles around Bill, gesturing for him to follow him as he plops down on the bed. And what can Bill do but follow obediently? He loops his arms around Stan’s waist, pulling him onto his lap and resting his chin on his shoulder as Stan struggles to put the phone on speaker. “Did he see the video?”

“ _ Yeah _ ,” Eddie says. “ _ He was really mad. I think if we do something now, we could really hurt him. _ ”

“What are you thinking?” Stan asks.

“Ah-Another vv-video?” Bill asks.

“ _ Better _ ,” Eddie says. There’s something shaky in his voice, like there’s something he isn’t telling them. But Bill pushes that thought to the back of his mind. It must be his imagination. “ _ Robert mentioned his address during dinner. I think if we sneak over there, we could find a lot of information. We could know exactly how to hit him where it hurts. _ ”

Stan hesitates. “I dunno, Eds. That seems risky.”

“No, ah-are you kidding?” Bill says. “This is a once in a ll-lifetime oh-op-opportunity. We have to tt-take it.”

“If he wakes up and finds us there…” Stan trails off, not wanting to even think about what would happen.

“He ww-won’t,” Bill insists. “Please, Stan.”

Stan looks like this is just about the last thing he wants to do. Still, he nods. He’s shot down nearly every idea Bill’s had so far, out of nothing but his own fear. If he wants to show Bill just how much he cares about him, he’s going to need to start trusting him. “Alright.”

“ _ I’ll text you the address, _ ” Eddie says. And is it Bill’s imagination again, or has Eddie’s voice gotten shakier? “ _ Please be careful. _ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grenade by Bruno Mars came out in 2010, in case anyone was wondering. Also it took about 50k words and literally almost a year but we finally made it boys! We got the stenbrough confession. Everything is almost right in the world. Now all our heroes have to do is defeat a power hungry maniac. And you know who else has to defeat a power hungry maniac? Us. We do. If you're in America, let's vote Trump out of office, am I right??
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading! I hope you guys liked this chapter. Please leave a comment, I always love reading your guys' thoughts!


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When they finally reach the property, they find themselves face to face with a towering fence. Bill knows it was put there to protect Robert. But he can’t help but feel it’s real purpose is to protect them.
> 
> There’s a monster behind those walls, he thinks.

The digital clock next to Stan’s bed flashes 3 AM. The numbers burn brightly in the otherwise dark room, tiny green fires etching themselves into the bedside table. Bill stares at it for as long as he dares. As if the simple act of looking will make the numbers melt into themselves.

Stan and himself had agreed, after hanging up with Eddie, that at 3 AM they would get up and sneak out. It had seemed like a lifetime ago when they made the agreement. A part of Bill thought it would never really come. And yet here they are. Basking in the neon green light of those little fucking numbers.

Bill could just roll over and go to sleep. Could pretend this never even happened.

He would tell Stan he slept through the alarm. He would believe it, he’s sure he would. Why would he lie about that? What reason does Bill have for not wanting to go? Stan would have no reason not to believe him.

It’s tempting, the idea of forgetting all his problems. So tempting that Bill can feel his eyes starting to droop closed.

He rolls over. Shakes Stan’s shoulder. “Hey. It’s tt-time to go.”

Stan whines softly. “‘M tired.”

The gravelly, sleepy quality in his voice makes the corners of Bill’s lips tug upwards. He thinks he could get used to this. The ruffled bedhead. The way Stan rubs the sleep from his eyes. The arch of his back as he stretches. For a moment it makes Bill forget just why they’re getting up.

He watches as Stan slips out of bed. The sight of him in his boxers and Bill’s sweatshirt (which is technically Eddie’s sweatshirt, but Bill’s been wearing it so he thinks that makes it his by default) makes Bill’s heart pound. He almost feels normal. Like any other teenager sneaking into their boyfriend’s room. Then Stan offers him a crooked smile and says, “You gonna get up?” and it all comes rushing back.

Bill nods jerkily and follows him out. He stumbles a bit as he pulls his clothes from the day before back on. Except for his sweatshirt, because Stan looks so cozy in it.

“Rr-Ready to go?” Bill asks.

Stan nods.

Bill reaches out to take his hand, but finds it preoccupied. The sleeves of his sweatshirt are clenched between Stan’s fingers, curling around his fist until the sleeves swallow his hand whole.

“Stan,” Bill says gently. “You don’t huh-have to go if you don’t ww-wuh-want to.”

“I want to,” Stan says automatically. “I do. I just…” He trails off lamely. There’s no real excuse. Of course he doesn’t want to go. Hell, Bill doesn’t even want to go.

“You cc-can wait in the car ih-if you want,” Bill suggests. “Or we can call ss-some-someone else to take mm-me.”

Stan shakes his head. “No. I’ll take you. I’ll go in with you. You’re my,”  _ boyfriend _ , “friend.” He hesitates before adding, “Maybe - Maybe more than that. I want to go with you.”

Bill smiles softly as he takes Stan’s hands in his own, gently prying his fingers away from the soft material of his sweatshirt as he does. “More than that. I ww-want you to come tt-tuh-too.”

Stan squeezes his hands. “Then I’ll come.”

They tip-toe down the hallway, holding their shoes between pinched fingers in an attempt to soften their footsteps. Andrea’s a light sleeper, and Stan knows that if she caught them he would never be allowed out again.

Luckily, they manage to slip out the back door without alerting her. Stan starts the car, able to do nothing but pray that it doesn’t alert his parents, and backs out of the driveway.

For a while it’s silent. There’s not much to be said when you’re driving with your possible boyfriend on the way to Hollywood’s biggest dictator’s house at 3 in the morning. It’s one of those moments that really makes you sit back and examine your life.

_ How the hell did it get to this? _ You might ask yourself.

And the truth is there is no real answer. There’s no one thing that led to this moment. It was a combination of bad decisions - not always made by yourself - that forced you down this particular path.

Bill’s gaze lingers on Stan. He looks ethereal in the moonlight. “Are you oh-okay?”

Stan looks over at him in surprise. “Yeah. I - Yeah. I’m - I’m okay. I think I’m okay.”

Bill studies him. The way his fingers curl around the steering wheel. The way his lower lip worms its way between his teeth. The way his eyes seem hyper aware of his surroundings. “You rr-really don’t have to come ih-in with mm-muh-me.”

“I want to,” Stan says firmly. “You can’t go in alone, that’s crazy. This isn’t some dumb horror movie.”

“I know,” Bill says softly. “But I also kn-know Robert’s ah-al-always scared you.”

There’s no denying the truth in that. Stan had spent more nights crying alone in his room, terrified to show up at work the next morning than he can remember. But he showed up anyway. And if he could do that, he can do this. “I’ll be fine. You don’t need to worry about me so much, Bill. I’m tougher than I look.”

Bill grins widely. “I don’t dd-doubt that.”

Stan’s eyes dart over to Bill for a moment, gaze lingering on the soft features of his face, before returning to the road. “What about you? Are you okay?”

“Why ww-wuh-wouldn’t I bb-be oh-okay?”

“Because,” Stan says softly, “Robert fucked you over. He controlled your whole life, put it up on a television screen for the world’s entertainment. He treated you like you were a puppet. And you’ve never even met him.”

Bill shifts uncomfortably. It’s true. Robert has always treated him as sub-human. Like he was just there for everyone else's pleasure, with little to no regard for Bill’s own life. All Bill knows about him is the sound of his voice. But, “If all guh-goes to pp-pl-plan, I still ww-won’t meet huh-him.”

“I hope it goes to plan then,” Stan mutters.

-

Stan parks down the block from Robert’s house, not wanting to be caught on camera. But there are no street lamps way out here, and the flashlight on Stan’s phone is barely enough to see even a few feet ahead of them. Not to mention the growing anxiety in Bill’s stomach doesn’t exactly help make the whole situation any less ominous.

When they finally reach the property, they find themselves face to face with a towering fence. Bill knows it was put there to protect Robert. But he can’t help but feel it’s real purpose is to protect them.

_ There’s a monster behind those walls _ , he thinks.

He could turn back now and pretend this never happened. Save himself the pain. Protect Stan from the fear that shines in his eyes. But if he ever wants to find out where Georgie is, this is where he’s going to have to go.

He sets one foot on the first bar and starts to climb.

-

The front door is locked, but that’s to be expected. Instead of trying the door a second time, Stan and Bill walk around the perimeter of the house, looking for an unlocked window.

They get lucky around the back. It slides open without any fight, and even though it creaks as it opens, the house seems big enough that no one’s alerted.

For a few moments Stan and Bill do nothing but stare at it. A part of them can’t believe they’ve gotten as far as they have. Something feels off about it. It’s all too easy. Too convenient.

But Bill tries not to think about that too hard. What was it his dad always said? Never look a gift horse in the mouth.

“I can go ff-fuh-first,” Bill offers.

“I can go,” Stan says shakily. But Bill sees the shake in his hands. Sees how the light from his phone wobbles back and forth across the open window.

“I’ll go,” Bill says again, firmer. “You come in rr-right behind me. Okay?”

Stan nods.

Bill slips in through the window with ease. Looking around, he seems to have found himself in a sort of office. There’s a desk to his right and a bookshelf to his left. Paintings and photographs adorn the walls, and yet it lacks that fundamental sense of homeyness. It’s almost disturbing how perfect it is. Not a speck of dust to be found.

Bill crosses to the bookshelf, not quite sure what he’s hoping to find there. A crack in one of the spines? A bookmark? Quite literally to prove that this house is actually being lived in?

Nothing.

Next Bill goes to the desk. He expects to find  _ something _ here. A stray pen or shopping list. Maybe even Robert’s plans for the future of  _ The Denbrough Show. _ Wouldn’t that be a treat?

But there’s nothing of the sort.

The desk is completely empty save a pad of paper and fountain pen placed meticulously in the center.

A hand comes down on Bill’s shoulder.

Bill whips around, fully prepared to find Robert looming over him. But it’s just Stan, half lit up by the full moon lingering outside the window. “You okay?”

Bill nods, trying to subdue his pounding heart. “Yuh-Yuh-Yeah.”

“C’mon,” Stan murmurs. “We have to find his laptop. That’s where he’s going to keep everything.”

He reaches his hand towards Bill, who takes it without a second of hesitation. He lets Stan drag him through the house and tries not to be blown away by the sheer size of it. How can Robert possibly know where anything is?

“Where do pp-puh-people usually keep thuh-thuh-their laptops?” Bill asks.

Stan shrugs. “Wherever, I guess. Usually their bedroom or office.”

“Wuh-We were just in his oh-off-office.”

“With a place like this, I wouldn’t be surprised if he has a million offices.”

Stan slips through the next doorway, finding himself in a kitchen. It’s an open floorplan with a marble topped island in the center and giant windows looking out over a lush garden and, in the distance, rolling hills. Stan can’t help but feel a sense of envy. His kitchen back home barely fits himself and both his parents. He could fit every single one of his cast mates in this one room with ease.

Bill doesn’t dare turn on the overhead lights, but the moonlight shining in through the wall length windows is more than bright enough.

His footsteps echo slightly as he walks, and he knows it makes Stan nervous, if the way his grip tightens on his hand is anything to go by, but he doesn’t even think about stopping to take off his shoes. Not if they have to make a quick getaway.

“Bill,” Stan whispers. Tugs on his hand. “Look.”

There’s no laptop, but sitting on the corner of the island is a small, rectangular device. Bill quickly narrows in on it as a cell phone, similar to the one Eddie has at home. Then, with a sort of shocked clarity, he realizes it’s  _ Robert’s _ cell phone.

He’s next to the island in an instant. And even though he stares down at it, looking not unlike a deer caught in headlights, he can’t bring himself to touch it.

For a moment it’s all too real to him. He was never supposed to see any of this. All this behind the scenes work, all the modern technology. He was supposed to live his entire life in blissful ignorance. For a single fleeting second, he wonders if that would have been better.

Stan picks the phone up with his free hand. Bill does his best to ignore the way his hand shakes as he does.

Stan clicks the home button, half hoping Robert will have been stupid enough to forget a password. But it seems their luck has finally run out.

“Fuck,” Stan whispers, staring down at the glowing screen. What would Robert seem worthy enough to make his passcode? A birthday maybe? But who’s? It wasn’t like Robert was close with anyone. He certainly didn’t love anyone enough to remember their birthdays. Except maybe-

Stan punches in Bill’s birthday. If there’s one person whose birthday Robert remembered -  _ had _ to remember - and cared about, it was Bill’s.

Nothing.

“This might be a dead end,” Stan frowns. “I’m sorry.”

“Ih-It’s okay-”

“It’s 1-2-1-0-0-3.” Time seems to stop dead. And for a moment Bill thinks he might die along with it. Because he knows that voice. He didn’t think he would ever hear it again, but he knows it. And, sure enough, when he turns around, there’s Georgie Denbrough. “That’s when the show first aired.”

Bill’s tongue suddenly feels dry as sandpaper. “Juh-Juh-Geor-Georgie,” he manages to choke out, though it comes out cracked and broken.

“Hi,” Georgie says meekly. “Are you here to get Eddie?”

Bill shakes his head. “We’re here to ff-fuh-find you.”

Georgie cocks his head curiously. “Me?”

Bill nods, but before he can say anything more, Stan cuts him off, “Wait, wait. Did you say Eddie’s  _ here _ ?”

“Yeah,” Georgie says. “In the guest room.”

“Ah, the guest room,” Stan says dryly. He gestures lamely to the enormous house surrounding them. “That should be easy to find.”

“I can show you,” Georgie offers. “I know where it is.”

Bill takes a tentative step forward. “Have you bb-been here the wh-whole time?”

“Yes,” Georgie says softly. “Where have you been?”

“With Eddie,” Bill says, suddenly feeling ashamed. What had he been doing hiding away with Eddie? He could have been here, searching for Georgie, the whole time. Instead he left him in the hands of a monster.

“Georgie,” Stan says with a gentleness that makes Bill’s heart melt. “Can you take us to Eddie?”

Georgie hesitates before nodding. “But then you have to go.”

“Yeah, yeah, oh-of course,” Bill says. “Ah-And you can come ww-wuh-with us.”

Georgie’s face lights up. “Really?”

Bill swallows down the lump in his throat. If he’s not careful, that spark in Georgie’s eye will pry open his tear ducts and resolve him to nothing but a blubbering mess. “Yeah.”

Georgie’s grin widens as he spins around, gesturing wildly for them to follow him.

In all honesty, following Georgie through Robert’s mansion is a little like following a ghost through a haunted graveyard. Except, Bill thinks, a haunted graveyard might be less nerve wracking. Ghosts can’t hurt you. And if you don’t believe in them, they can’t do anything at all. But the monster hiding here isn’t anything like the ghouls Bill's used to seeing in those old Halloween movies. And Georgie is more than real.

A part of him is still in shock. He’s  _ real _ . Bill could reach out and touch him. Could pull him into a hug and never let go.

But he doesn’t. He barely lets himself get within a foot of his brother. It all just seems too good to be true. And he can’t help but worry that if he lets himself get his hopes up it’ll all just fade away.

“Here.” Georgie stops suddenly. A smooth, white door looms above them. It looks the same as every other door in this godforsaken place, but Georgie looks certain it’s the right one. And who’s Bill to not trust his judgement?

Bill untangles his and Stan’s fingers - which, when he looks back, he’ll decide is the moment everything went wrong. If he had just kept hold of Stan’s hand, maybe everything would have turned out alright. But, alas, he releases his grip and takes a step forward, raising the hand that had previously held Stan’s and placing it around the doorknob.

He opens it cautiously. If Georgie’s wrong and it isn’t Eddie behind this door at all, he’ll be in an unfathomable amount of trouble.

But it is Eddie.

He looks exhausted, eyes puffy and red, but it’s him. But Bill still doesn’t get the warm welcome he was expecting. Instead Eddie looks horrified, mouth agape and eyes wide. For a second, Bill worries he might start crying all over again.

“What are you doing here?” he says.

Bill freezes. “Wh-What do you mm-muh-mean? You - You told uh-us to cc-come.”

“Yeah, but - but-” Eddie looks desperately at Stan. “I didn’t think you would actually come.”

Stan takes a step forward. His hand brushes against Bill’s. Bill doesn’t grab it. “What are  _ you _ doing here?”

Eddie swallows thickly. Bill can see the thin veil of tears shimmering in front of his eyes. The sight of it makes Bill’s heart lurch, and he nearly steps forward to comfort him. But something holds him back. The sinking feeling of defeat in the pit of his stomach, maybe.

“Eh-Ed-Eddie,” Bill says, fighting to speak over his racing heartbeat. “You can tt-tell us.”

Eddie shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”

“What - What are you sorry for?” Stan asks.

But Bill thinks he already knows.

He squeezes his hands into fists, nails digging into the palms of his hands. He can feel the pain sparking there. Little bites of reality coming in to remind him,  _ you can’t win. You were never meant to win. _

“Stan,” Bill says. He reaches blindly for Georgie, unable to relax even a little until he feels his brother’s hand around his wrist. “Ww-Wuh-We huh-have to gg-guh-guh-go.”

Stan takes a step forward, gaze fixed sharply on Eddie. “Eddie, what did you do?”

“I told you, you need to go,” Georgie says, voice sounding fuzzy and far away. Distantly, Bill can feel him tugging on his hand. “Billy, you promised you would take me away from here.”

“I ww-will.” The words seem to come out of Bill’s mouth on their own accord. As if he’s being possessed by himself. The rational version of himself is speaking, but he can’t get the rest of himself to do what Rational Bill is saying. “We will, I pp-puh-pruh-promise.”

“Eddie what the hell did you do?”  
“I didn’t want to, okay!”

“Billy, please!”

“You promised-”

“I didn’t meant for-”

“Bill-”

There’s a pinprick of pain at the base of Bill’s neck.

The world goes dark.

-

“ _ Billy! _ ”

Georgie’s scream, mixed with the heart-stopping  _ thump _ of Bill’s body hitting the ground, is what finally pulls Stan back into reality. As soon as he’s back, the anger fades quickly. It’s replaced with a sort of dulled horror. Eddie’s got fresh tear tracks staining his cheeks, Georgie’s bent over Bill’s unresponsive body, desperately shaking his shoulder, and Robert’s in the doorway, syringe in hand and the ghost of a smirk on his lips.

“Thank you for delivering the goods, Stanley,” he says, “But I’m afraid I’m still going to have to tell you you’re off the show.”

“Get away from him.” Stan moves as if to grab Bill, but a single look from Robert is enough to make him freeze up all over again.

“I expected better from you,” Robert drawls. “But I’m really not surprised. You always let Tozier drag you into whatever mess he created.”

“This isn’t Richie’s fault,” Stan says. “We all - All six of us had a plan. A plan that outsmarted you.”

Whatever courage Stan had left goes pattering away as Robert shoots him a glare. It’s sharp as knives, and cuts through any ability Stan had left to stand up for himself. “And yet here we are.

“Please,” Stan says shakily. “Please don’t do this.”

“ _ Stanley _ .” The tone of Robert’s voice makes Stan’s mouth snap shut, and he finds himself able to do nothing but watch helplessly as Robert slings Bill over his shoulder. He feels like he’s back on set, watching from the sidelines as Robert leads Bill through life like a mouse being led through a maze.

Before he knows it, Robert has disappeared from the hallway, taking Bill with him and leaving Stan alone with nothing but an old sweatshirt that technically doesn’t even belong to Bill.

-

He doesn’t bother being quiet as he walks back into the house. There’s no point in it now, he’s going to have to tell his parents one way or another.

He’s halfway through making himself a cup of hot chocolate - unsure how else to cope with his loss - when his mother comes stumbling blindly down the stairs.

“Stanley?” she calls out, voice soft as velvet. “What are you doing up? Why are you dressed?”

Stan answers with an earth shattering sob.

He never finishes his pot of hot chocolate, choosing instead to let it bubble on the stove as Andrea gathers him into her arms and simply holds him, letting him cry into her shoulder to his heart’s content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright I really hope because there aren't any spelling mistakes because even though I did edit this, I'm posting it at almost 2 in the morning so...
> 
> Also I'm sorry this chapter was late! I'm trying to be more consistent about updating but life got in the way, ya know. Thank you so much for reading, please let me know your thoughts in the comments! The next chapter should be up soon!


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last week has been a blur. Robert’s been frantically busy, making plans to send Bill back to set. It’s supposed to be any day now. And there’s nothing Georgie can do to stop it. Which is maybe the worst part.

They say that when you’re introduced to a dangerous situation, your brain goes into fight or flight mode. But there’s a third, lesser known, response to danger called freeze. You neither run nor fight, but simply stare in horror as the beast comes charging towards you. You know it will devour you. But even knowing this isn’t enough to spark a change.

This is how Georgie Denbrough feels. It’s how he’s felt ever since he was dumped on Robert Gray’s doorstep, eyes wide and naive. He didn’t have anywhere to run and he certainly couldn’t fight back, not against someone with as much power over him as Robert has. And so he froze, feeling icy cold as he watched the years slip through his fingers.

He had felt some of that spark return to him when he had seen his brother again. Bill had  _ promised _ to take him away. Had promised to keep him safe. Georgie should have known there was no real hope there, but he couldn’t stop the fire from lighting up in his chest.

Only for it to be stomped out again.

He had half hoped Stan would take him with him. But the only person to leave with him had been Eddie. Even though Georgie could see the apologies in their eyes, the stab of betrayal was still evident. Apologies meant nothing to him anymore. After years of Robert Gray’s empty apologies, they all started to sound the same. Even the genuine ones.

Not that there are many of those. Sometimes Georgie wonders if he would be able to tell the difference.

Laying alone in his bed, he feels more frozen than ever. The last week has been a blur. Robert’s been frantically busy, making plans to send Bill back to set. It’s supposed to be any day now. And there’s nothing Georgie can do to stop it. Which is maybe the worst part.

It didn’t take him long to find out where Robert was keeping Bill, but he has yet to find a way inside. The key is constantly attached to Robert, and no matter how many YouTube videos Georgie watches, he just can’t get the hang of picking locks.

But tonight will be the night. He’s sure of it. Robert’s working late again so Georgie will have plenty of time to attempt his break in without fear of being caught.

The thought is terrifying though, and even as he walks through the corridors his entire body screams at him to turn back. If Robert happens to turn in early and catches him trying to break into Bill’s room he would get worse than a black eye.

Bill’s room is up on the third floor, across the hall from Robert’s room. The sight of Robert’s own locked door sends chills down Georgie’s spine. He has never been allowed in there - not that he had ever had the urge to go in - but the thought of what might lurk in there always plagued his mind. When he was a kid, he imagined it like a cartoon villain’s lair, complete with torture devices and a Big Red Button that could end the world. Now Georgie’s old enough to know the room is probably nothing out of the ordinary, but he’s still sure Robert could end the world if he wanted to.

He feels like it’s watching him as he works. As if the door itself has grown eyes and they’re burning themselves into his back as he tries to remember everything the YouTube video said. But his hands shake as he works and the words are fuzzy in his brain.

Is he supposed to bend the straight side of the hairpin or the wavy side? How far is he supposed to bend it? Is he sure the hairpin won’t break under the pressure?

He can feel his breathing start to rattle in his chest as he twists the hairpin inside the lock. It probably won’t even work. The hairpin will probably break off inside the lock and then it’ll be trapped forever and no one will ever be able to unlock the door because Georgie’s blocked the lock and Bill will starve and-

_ Click _ .

Georgie watches in amazement as the door swings open. He wonders if this is how Lucy felt when she finally found a doorway back to Narnia. He wonders if she felt the same rush of safety and comfort he feels now. He wonders if she felt at home.

Slowly, he tip-toes towards Bill. There’s no reason to be quiet, not anymore, but Georgie’s still breaking the rules. And rules are always broken quietly.

Bill’s hooked up to a bunch of wires and machines. Most of which Georgie can’t recognize for the life of him. But he recognizes the steady beat of a heart monitor and he recognizes the drip of a strange clear liquid leaking into Bill’s veins. For a moment he has the urge to rip it out, the way people do in movies. Maybe that would wake Bill up.

But he doesn’t. Rationally he knows it would only harm Bill more, and there’s no way he could actually pull him out of his slumber. But that doesn’t stop him from looking for a solution. Maybe he’s wrong. Maybe there actually is a way to wake him. Maybe Georgie just has to find it.

But, in the end, he’s right back where he started. There’s no way for him to wake up Bill without taking some serious risks.

As much as the thought of Robert taking him away again pains Georgie, the thought of being the one to accidentally cause Bill to OD on the strange clear liquid is even worse. At least once Robert takes him away he’ll still be  _ alive _ .

So instead of fiddling with the strange knobs and buttons and tubes, he sinks into the mattress and curls into his brother’s side. It reminds him of when he was a kid. He used to have incessant nightmares, the kind that forced him to stay up for hours, just staring at the ceiling and hoping the dark would dissipate any moment now. On the nights he felt brave enough to leave his bed, he would tiptoe across the room (quiet enough so as to not disrupt the monsters) and creep into Bill’s room. Most nights Georgie was quiet enough to not wake Bill up. But in the morning when he awoke to find Georgie curled up next to him, he was always kind enough to hold him tight and listen as his baby brother recounted the most recent nightmare.

If Georgie closes his eyes he can almost pretend they’re back home. But the constant  _ beep _ of the heart monitor is a harsh reminder that this time Bill isn’t going to wake up.

“I wish you didn’t have to go,” Georgie says quietly. “I know living here isn’t the best, but I think it would be better than going back to mom and dad.” He pauses, as if waiting for Bill to reply. All he gets is the steady rise and fall of Bill’s chest. “But maybe you wouldn’t like it here.” Maybe he wouldn’t like it here, cooped up in a house all day with nothing but his own imagination to keep him company. Maybe he wouldn’t like peering over his shoulder at every turn, ready to find Robert looming over him. Maybe he wouldn’t like Georgie’s life.

The gentle hum of the machines eventually lulls Georgie asleep. He feels almost safe in their arms, cradled in the false security of their warmth. Because that’s the thing about when you freeze. You never truly feel safe after that. You feel  _ almost _ safe. You feel the memory of safety. You play the part and repeat it over and over and over again:  _ I feel safe. I feel safe. I feel safe, I feel safe, IfeelsafeIfeelsafeIfeelsafe- _

But real safety is knowing you have the strength not to freeze.

-

Georgie wakes to a figure looming over him.

He doesn’t need to wait for his eyes to adjust to the darkness to know it’s Robert.

“What are you doing in here?” Robert’s voice, to anyone else, would have sounded perfectly calm. But Georgie’s been trapped here long enough to notice the tiny inflections in his voice. He knows he’s mad. And if he weren’t so worried about ruining the merchandise he would have taken Georgie out of this room by force a long time ago.

Georgie wraps his arms around himself as he sits up. “I wanted to see my brother.”

Robert hums noncommittally. “C’mon. Let Bill have his beauty sleep.”

Georgie hesitates.

“ _ George _ !” Robert snaps. His voice sounds like a firework in the otherwise silent room. It immediately jolts Georgie out of any hesitation he had been feeling and he slips off the bed without a second thought.

The slam of the door echoes throughout the house like a gunshot. The only sound louder is the  _ click _ that follows as Robert re-sets the lock.

“I told you not to go in there.”

Georgie does his best not to cower as Robert rounds on him. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want you to be sorry,” Robert snarls. “I want you to not be a fuck up.”

The resounding  _ slap _ that follows nearly sends Georgie flying off his feet. He scrambles to catch his footing but doesn’t bother straightening up. If Robert sees he’s not fighting back, maybe he’ll let him off the hook. Maybe he’ll know that Georgie knows he deserves this.

“First you mess up the interview, now you go snooping through my stuff?” Another backhand follows Robert’s words, this one leaving Georgie’s ears ringing.

Robert’s still screaming, but Georgie can only hear the muffled sound of his voice. Any specifics are lost on him. The disorientation makes him waver on his feet. What if his hearing is like this forever? What if Robert’s finally gotten angry enough to break him? Georgie knows he could. It’s never been a question of  _ if _ , just of  _ when _ .  _ When _ will Georgie push him over the edge?  _ When _ will he end up on a stretcher?  _ When _ will be his final demise, still trapped inside these four walls with no way out?

Robert shouts something else. Georgie stares, cupping his stinging cheek in one hand. It barely covers the massive handprint that’s bruised there.

Apparently this isn’t enough. Because a moment later Robert grabs Georgie’s chin and yanks him forward. “Understand?”

Georgie nods weakly, even though he doesn’t understand. Not at all. “Yes.”

Robert narrows his eyes. “I don’t believe you.”

Next thing Georgie knows, his feet are slipping out from under him and his head is ricocheting off the wall. The pain is dull at first, echoing from the very back of his skull and slowly inching closer to the outer part of Georgie’s head. As it moves, it gets shaper and shaper. Until Georgie has to grip it in both hands to make sure his skull doesn’t split in half.

“I’m ss-suh-sorry,” he rambles. Something salty drips onto his lower lip. Half coherently, he wonders if it’s tears or blood. “I didn’t - I didn’t muh-muh-mean - mean to. I’m suh-sorry. I’ll leave - leave huh-him ah-al-alone - alone now.  _ I’m sorry! _ ”

“I know you’re fucking sorry!” Robert roars. The kick to the ribs is swift and painful. Georgie’s only option is to curl into the smallest ball possible, knees to his chest and hands over his ears. “Stop fucking saying that!” His kicks bounce off Georgie’s shins. And while they’re painful, sharp and stinging, they’re nothing like what the pain in Georgie’s ribs would be.

Eventually the blows dissipate, but even the almost gentle way Robert nudges Georgie’s ankle leaves his entire leg aching. But he doesn’t have time to think about that right now. Robert wants his attention.

Georgie’s shoulders shake as he looks up. By now he’s stopped hoping to see pity in Robert’s eyes, but the lack of sympathy still rattles him to his core. It’s like staring into the eyes of a rabid dog.

“You’re a brat,” Robert says calmly, as if he were discussing Georgie’s poor grades. “I give you food and a roof over your head and this is how you repay me.”

Georgie shamelessly lets a sob rip its way past his lips. He has no reason to hide them now. “I know. It won’t - It won’t happen again.”

“It better not.” Robert regards Georgie with disgust. “Go to bed. We will further discuss your punishment in the morning.”

-

Bill distinctly remembers falling asleep in Robert Gray’s house. He remembers holding Stan’s hand. He remembers the bland grey interior. He remembers Eddie’s tears. He remembers the particular placements of the modern art. He remembers the hope in Georgie’s eyes.

Point is, he knows for a fact he did not fall asleep in his childhood bedroom.

And yet here he is.

For a moment the cool blue of the ceiling is comforting. He’s home. His skull feels like it’s been beat with a hammer and he can barely keep his eyes open, but he’s home.

Next comes confusion. He isn’t supposed to be home. He’s supposed to be with Stan. He had just kissed him, why isn’t he here with him?

Panic settles in last.

Sneaking into Robert Gray’s house.

The harrowing look in Eddie’s eyes.

The pinprick of pain in his neck.

Realization kicks in and suddenly he feels more awake than ever. Robert had drugged him. He had known he was coming and had seized the opportunity. Bill had walked right into his trap.

His eyes dart wildly around the room. Is he being recorded right now? Are his friends watching him? Are his friends  _ here _ ?

He swings his feet over the edge of the bed and, as if on cue, his mother comes waltzing in.

“Bill!” She rushes to his side, pushing firmly on his shoulders and forcing him back into bed. “You need to rest. The doctors said recovery is the most important part of surgery.”

Bill shakes his head. Her voice is just a little grating on his pounding skull. “Wh-What?”

“For your arm,” Sharon says, voice painfully sweet. “The doctors don’t want you putting too much pressure on it.”

Bill recoils from her touch. Something about her sugar covered words doesn’t sit right with him. Something bitter is hiding underneath. “Why ah-am I hh-huh-here?”

Sharon laughs. Bill can’t help but think it sounds forced and practiced, nothing like the sound Stan makes when he laughs. “What are you talking about?”

“I gg-guh-got out,” Bill says quietly. “I eh-es-escaped, why am I bb-buh-buh-back?”

“Honey, you’re not making any sense.” Sharon presses the back of her hand against Bill’s forehead. “You don’t feel warm. Oh, I’ll call the doctor anyway. You rest, alright?”

“Wh-What? Nn-Nuh-No!” Bill blurts. He scrambles out of bed, ignoring his mother’s protests. “Don’t ll-lie to me! Not ah-again!”

“Bill. Why would I lie to you? What the hell are you talking about?” The hurt on his mother’s face is clear, and for a moment Bill considers apologizing. Maybe he is overreacting. She is his mother, after all. Why would she hurt him?

He shakes his head. “You know wh-whuh-what. You kept mm-me here-”

“In your home?” Sharon blanches. “You  _ live _ here, Bill! I don’t know what you were expecting-”

“I don’t ll-luh-live huh-here!” Bill shouts. “I’m tr-trap-trapped here!”

“Is this about college again? I promised you we would figure it out, but we have a perfectly good university right here-”

“It’s ah-about Geor-Georgie, mom.”

Anything else Sharon had to say on the subject falls dead on her tongue. The mention of her youngest had always, as far as Bill knew, affected her. She rarely spoke of him, and on the rare occasion Bill could work up the nerve to talk about him around her, she was always quick to shut it down. If he were to judge from the look in her eyes alone, he would have been ashamed of the fact that he’s positive she never meant any of it.

“You tt-tuh-told me he ww-wuh-was dd-duh-duh-dead, mom.”

“I thought you had gotten over this.” Sharon’s voice is almost inaudibly quiet now. Bill thinks it’s to hide the way her voice shakes.

“You ah-ab-abandoned him,” Bill says. “You let mm-me believe he was dd-dead-”

“Why would I do that, Bill?” snaps Sharon. “If he were alive, why wouldn’t I bring him home? What reason do I have to abandon him?”

Bill glares down at the floor, watching his toes curl and uncurl. Watching her act all high and mighty makes him sick to his stomach. As if he’s the crazy one. As if he asked for her to stream every moment of his life to the world.

“Wh-Why did you do it?” he whispers. “Why did you hh-huh-have to ah-act like he was dd-duh-dead? Wouldn’t the sh-show have been jj-juh-just as good if he were alive?”

For a second he thinks he sees some sort of understanding flash in his mother’s eyes. Pity, maybe. But it’s gone as soon as it’s there, and before he knows it she’s on her feet and halfway across the room.

“I’m calling the doctor,” she says, not bothering to look at him as she does. “He’ll know what to do.”

She slams the door behind her. The sound echoes throughout the room, reverberating through Bill’s skull and reminding him just how hollow this place really is. A facade set up for the world’s entertainment with no real substance inside it.

The thought alone exhausts him, and he collapses back onto his bed with a barely audible  _ huff _ . On instinct, his eyes drift to the photo on his bedside table. The grinning faces of his friends stare back at him, hands filled with ice cream and hearts full of laughter.

But there’s something different about the photo now.

This particular photo is one of Bill’s favorites. It’s nearly impossible to get a good photo of all six of his friends. Even if they can get all of them in one place, there always seems to be one person who isn’t happy with how the photo turned out. But they were all happy with this one, agreeing it was one of the best days of the whole summer.

But his friends aren’t in the photo anymore. At least, not how he remembers them. The people in the photograph look similar enough, but he would have to be an idiot to be fooled by them.

His eyes settle on the Fake Stan. He can’t even get Real Stan’s smile right, and somehow that makes Bill angrier than anything else. The thought that someone out there thinks they can replace his friends and he won’t notice the fine details. As if they’re replaceable.

He lets out a shaky breath.

He can’t suffer through this again. Not without his friends by his side.

Before he can think better of it, he smashes the picture frame against the corner of his bedside table. The glass covering shatters with the force of it, spraying tiny slivers across the hardwood floors. Bill’s fingers curl around the paper inside, ignoring the way the remaining glass slices at his hand, and yanks it out. There isn’t anything inside the frame, but Bill isn’t deterred. He’ll find it eventually.

He makes sure to lock his door before setting to work. First, his desk. He takes apart every notebook, every drawer, even the old typewriter he got for his last birthday. But they all turn up empty.

Next is the desk itself. He can’t take it apart with his hands, but his old baseball bat from his little league days is still inside his closet. It takes more than a few good hits to break it, but the  _ crack _ that erupts throughout the room when he does is somehow almost therapeutic.

By now his mother has started to knock frantically on the door.  _ “Bill!” _ she shouts,  _ “Bill let me in! What the hell are you doing in there? You’re scaring me, let me in!” _

Bill does not let her in.

Instead he digs at the wood of his desk with his hands, prying away the edges and only flinching a little at the feeling of splinters combining with the slivers of glass in his palms. Some of the pieces break away easily. Others need another good whack with the baseball bat.

But in the end, it’s the same as everything else. Empty.

No matter. Something else would have the evidence he needs.

His pillows and comforter are next to go. He takes the first sharp object he can find and tears them apart, letting stuffing fall to the floor like snow. When those all give the result, he moves on to his headboard. The slightest movement of his hands causes a deep, aching pain to flare up. But he doesn’t dare let that stop him. He tears into the headboard with the same ferocity he did with the desk, using the bat to watch it shatter beneath his hands.

And yet the same result. Nothing.

The lack of evidence is starting to make Bill uneasy now.

Maybe it really was all a dream. An insane, all too realistic dream. Maybe Stan’s never had that sweet smile he so clearly remembers. Maybe Robert Gray really isn't a real person. Maybe Georgie really is dead. Maybe he just destroyed his entire room because some kid with a fanny pack told him the world around him wasn’t real. Maybe that kid was the one who wasn’t ever real.

Somehow, the thought terrifies him even more than the thought of being right.

Bill shakes his head.

No. He’s right, he knows he is. Eddie’s real. Robert’s real. Georgie’s alive. Stan’s waiting for him out there.

He can’t stay here.

His eyes scan the room anxiously. His mother has stopped knocking. Meaning she’s gone to get the spare key and will be back any moment to put a stop to this. If Bill even wants a chance of finding his evidence he’s going to have to act fast.

He has to stand on his desk chair to reach, and he nearly topples off more than once, but with the help of his new best friend the baseball bat he manages to get the molding near the ceiling open.

For a while this also seems to be a dead end. He has to continue to smash the ceiling and tear it apart, leaving bloody handprints as he goes, and all of it seems to be for naught. He’s just about to give up when something catches his eye.

With as much precision as he has with his swollen fingers, he pinches just behind the lens and yanks. When nothing happens he yanks again. And again. And again.

When it finally comes out, he nearly falls off the chair in his surprise. But he manages to steady himself, strings of pain shooting up his arm as he slams his hand against the wall in a desperate attempt to stay upright.

But he hardly notices. Because gripped between his fingers is the smallest fucking camera Bill has ever seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is late again! I'm in the middle of midterms right now (booo) but hopefully once they're over I'll have more free time and can start updating more regularly.
> 
> In the mean time we're in the middle of Robert's desperate attempt to keep his power. Now the only question is whether or not he'll succeed.
> 
> Thank you all for reading! Please leave a comment, I always love hearing your thoughts!


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan shakes his head. Somewhere in the back of his mind he’s aware of the pinprick stinging of tears behind his eyes. “I’m sick of not knowing. We didn’t know if we could get Bill out, we didn’t know if we could avoid Robert, we didn’t know if we could keep our jobs. For once I just want to do something because I know it’s the right choice and I know things will turn out alright.”

“You should avoid putting strain on these,” the nurse says. “Don’t carry anything heavy for awhile, okay?”

Bill nods, still feeling a little out of it. After his mom had found him holding the camera, he had been rushed to the ER. His hands pulsed the entire way there, but they were the very last thing on his mind. His mother had barely flinched at the sight of the camera. Bill hadn’t even been able to get a word out before she was yanking him off his chair and into the car. He supposes the camera’s still in his room, and unless Robert sends someone to find it while he’s away, Bill guesses it’ll be there when he returns. He can ask his mom about it then.

“That should do it.” The nurse’s voice pulls Bill out of his thoughts. She’s smiling down at him, gloves stained red and scrubs disheveled.

“Ah-Are you rr-ruh-real?” Bill asks, not bothering to stop and consider how stupid that sounds. Of course she’s real. But did she major in medicine or theatre?

The nurse laughs softly. “About as real as can be. You sure you didn’t hit your head too?”

Bill hesitates before shaking his head. “Nn-No my head’s ff-fuh-fuh-fine.”

For a moment he expects the nurse to push the idea. She’ll insist he must have hit his head, that’s why he’s experiencing all these delusions. Tearing apart his room to find hidden cameras and rejecting his friends because they don’t look quite the same as he remembers.

“Alright,” she says instead. “You be careful with your hands now, alright?” Bill nods.

The nurse turns to leave but barely gets one foot in front of the other before she pauses, eyes glued to the clipboard in her hands. Bill isn’t sure what goes through her head at that moment, her eyes flitting across the words and her fingernails drumming against the back of the clipboard. But it’s fascinating to watch. It has always intrigued him to consider the turning points in a stranger’s life.

“I’m sorry,” she says softly, and a jolt goes through Bill. A beat passes. “About your hands, I mean.”

Then she disappears into the hospital, leaving Bill sitting on the edge of the bed with a heart pounding hard enough to crack his ribs. Someone’s on his side. Someone with no stakes in this scenario is on his side. It’s the first thing in the time he’s been back here that’s actually made him want to smile. A real, genuine smile. Maybe Robert’s hold over the world isn’t as strong as he thought.

-

By the time he gets in the car with his mother, his sliver of a good mood has vanished to nothing but a speck in the distance. The ride home is borderline painful. His mother hasn’t said a word the entire time, has barely even spared time a glance. Instead she stares straight ahead, lips pinched and knuckles white around the steering wheel.

It makes dread pool in Bill’s stomach, seeing her like this. She’s never been the warm and comforting type. Not like Stan’s mom, who laid eyes on Bill once and immediately welcomed him with open arms. But Sharon’s good at playing the part. Good at pretending to care. Now she isn’t even bothering with that. The most bare minimum task she could do as a mother and she can’t even be bothered to try.

It makes Bill’s stomach swirl uncomfortably.

He wants to believe that somewhere deep down, he’s a priority to her. He wants to believe that she cares about him just as much, if not more, than her place in the spotlight.

That belief is slowly crumbling before his eyes.

“Ya know, I sss-saw Juh-Juh-Geor-Georgie,” Bill says softly. Sharon tightens her grip on the wheel. Doesn’t answer. “In Rr-Ruh-Ruh-Rob-Robert’s house.” Still nothing. Determined, Bill pushes on. “Did you really th-thuh-think that ww-was the best pp-puh-pluh-place for him? It’s nn-not like Robert’s any mm-muh-more available than yy-yuh-you are.”

“Georgie’s dead.” Sharon’s voice is shaky. A few weeks ago Bill might have felt bad, guilty even. But he doesn’t feel anything at all right now. She deserves to feel like shit. After everything she did, after everything she puts her children through, she deserves to feel the weight of her actions.

The worst part is the tears might not be real at all.

“Yes he ih-is,” Bill says. “I saw him.”

“You were dreaming!” The force in Sharon’s voice shocks Bill into silence. It’s such a sudden switch from her silence that he can’t help it. She sounds so  _ angry _ and sure of herself. Like Bill’s the one who did something wrong. Like he’s the one who decided to fuck up his own life. “You were dreaming. That’s what happens when they put you under.”

Bill shakes his head. “I - I wasn’t duh-druh-druh-dreaming.”

Sharon throws one hand up into the air, wedding ring gleaming in the sunlight. “You expect me to believe you saw your dead brother? In some random man’s house? Who the hell is Robert, anyway? Someone from school?”

“I know you bb-buh-believe it!” Bill cries out. “You ll-luh-left him th-there!”

“Why would I leave my seven year old son with someone else?” Sharon says. “Do you even hear yourself when you’re like this? You don’t know how hard it is for a mother to lose her son, Bill. And it’s not any easier with you bringing him up all the time. Do you have any idea how selfish that is-”

“He was eight wh-when he dd-duh-died.”

For a split second Sharon hesitates. For a split second she seems to have recognized her mistake. For a split second Bill thinks maybe she will come clean. Then the facade is back, alongside a quick, “that’s not the point!” Improv is the backbone of an actor, Bill supposes.

“Why ih-isn’t that the pp-point?”

“I am trying to have a conversation with you. Do you have any idea how incredibly difficult you’re being?”

“Sh-Shuh-Shouldn’t you know how oh-old your son was when he dd-died?”

“I misspoke.”

“We don’t hh-huh-have to do this,” Bill murmurs. “If you jj-juh-just let him come back-” The car makes a sudden turn, swiveling around and driving back the opposite direction from their house. “Wh-Where ah-are we gg-guh-going?”

“To see Georgie,” Sharon says bitterly.

Somehow the phrase doesn’t give Bill hope.

She pulls over a few streets over. The tombstones stare back at him, like millions of unblinking eyes. He suppresses a shudder at the sight of them. He should know by now that Georgie isn’t buried there. He doubts anyone is. But that knowledge alone can’t protect him from the way his stomach drops or heart pounds. The graveyard has always had a cruel effect on him.

Sharon undoes her seatbelt. “Come on.”

Bill shakes his head. “I’m nn-nuh-not going ih-in th-thuh-there.”

“Why?” Sharon snaps. “I thought you wanted to see your brother.”

“I want to ss-suh-see him ah-alive.”

“He’s dead! You went to the funeral! For Christ’s sake, I thought you had gotten over this.”

“If you dd-duh-dug up the guh-gruh-grave, you wouldn’t ff-fuh-fuh-find anything-”

“Because he  _ drowned _ !” Sharon screams. “We never found his body! Because you couldn’t be bothered to watch him! Your father and I trusted you! And you - all you do is blame us! Do you have any idea how much it hurts to be blamed for the death of your own child? And by your own son, no less! Do you?”

Bill grits his teeth, refusing to let her see the tears swimming in his eyes. Even after everything, he can’t deny she’s right. Maybe if he had kept a better eye on his brother, Robert wouldn’t have been able to take him away. Maybe Georgie could have spent the last three years in a normal home.

“Cc-Can ww-wuh-we gg-guh-go hh-huh-huh-home?” Bill whispers.

Sharon doesn’t say a word as she starts the car, which Bill can’t help but be grateful for. Still, a part of him thinks he deserved everything she threw at him. He can’t help but think of the set as a sort of purgatory. Not quite hell, but bad enough to be a suitable punishment for his mistakes.

-

Stanley Uris would have scoffed at the idea of purgatory. If anything, this is hell, and Robert Gray is the devil. Purgatory is just a word for people who have gotten too used to hell, and want to excuse just how comfortable they’re getting in their own suffering.

Maybe a week ago Stan would have agreed with them. There was something calming about waking up everyday and not having to wonder if it would suck, because he already knew it would. He thinks a part of him had grown to love  _ The Denbrough Show  _ because of that. It was a horrible, awful place that he’s sure has skewed his perception of the world and damaged his ability to trust forever. But he had built a sort of home there.

Now what does he have?

“Stanley.” Richie’s shoulder brushes against his as he sits, trying to fit his awkwardly long body into the bit of space Stan had left. Stan doesn’t look over at him. “You alright?”

Stan shrugs. “I dunno.” How is he supposed to know a thing like that?

“Right,” Richie mumbles. “Stupid question. But - Uh - You know Bill’s tough. He’ll be alright.”

“I know,” Stan says, even though he’s not really sure he believes it.

Richie peers at him curiously. To Stan, it feels like being taken apart piece by piece. Like he’s a science experiment. One of those little frogs they have in high schools for the students to tear apart.

“Bev wants us to help her with her whole campaign thing,” Richie says. He laughs, but it comes out dry and makes Stan feel sad more than anything else. “She thinks if we all speak up it might do some good.”

“We don’t know that.”

“Hmm?”

“We don’t know anything. It might not - It might not help at all.”

Richie’s face drops. “Hey now, c’mon. Have a little hope. You never know.”

Stan shakes his head. Somewhere in the back of his mind he’s aware of the pinprick stinging of tears behind his eyes. “I’m sick of not knowing. We didn’t know if we could get Bill out, we didn’t know if we could avoid Robert, we didn’t know if we could keep our jobs. For once I just want to do something because I know it’s the right choice and I know things will turn out alright.”

Richie falls silent, which is a very unusual sight indeed. It lasts long enough that Stan thinks he might not answer at all. But then he shrugs, “I don’t know if anything in the world is that simple.”

“It’s not fair,” Stan mumbles.

“I know.” Richie slips his arm around Stan’s shoulder. Without a second thought, Stan presses himself closer to him, nestling his head in the crook of his neck. “I love you. You know that, don’t you?”

Stan nods. “I love you too, Rich.”

“I really do think Bill’s going to be okay. And he wouldn’t want you to beat yourself up like this.”

“You don’t know that,” Stan says meekly.

“I do know that. Bill loves you, Stan.” Richie lets out a soft laugh. “Do you know how much you have to like someone to love them?”

For the first time in what feels like years, the corners of Stan’s lips start to twitch up. “I dunno if he  _ loves _ me. That’s different than-”

“God, fuck off,” Richie groans. But there’s no heat behind the words, and if Stan was in a better mood he might have laughed. “Look, I was dating him and even I knew I wasn’t who he wanted to be with. I think he’s been in love with you for a long time.”

“I hope so.” Stan is fully smiling now. Despite the cold that seems to have settled around him, he can feel a flicker of warmth in his chest. Bill might  _ love _ him.

“Hey,” Richie says, voice slow and precise, like he isn’t sure he should be saying it at all. “Have you - Have you talked to - to Eddie at all this past week?”

“No,” Stan frowns. “I dropped him off at home and haven’t heard from him since. I’ve tried to reach out a couple times but…”

“Me too,” Richie murmurs. “I just - I want him to be okay.” He hesitates, fingers drumming a nervous beat on Stan’s shoulder. “Are you mad? At Eddie?”

“Not anymore,” Stan says softly. “I was. I was really,  _ really _ mad. But,” he shrugs, “it’s not worth it. It could have happened to any of us.” Richie nods, eyes unfocused and far away. Gathering up his courage, Stan takes his eyes off the floor and lets them drift up to look at his friend. “You should go see him.”

Richie sighs. “I dunno if he even wants to see me.”

“Of course he wants to see you,” Stan mutters. “Rich, I can’t even get to Bill right now. You actually have the capability to talk to Eddie. Don’t take that for granted.”

Guilt squirms in Richie’s stomach. How could he have been so insensitive? “I’m sorry. I-”

Stan waves him off. “It’s fine. Just promise me you’ll talk to him.”

The ghost of a smile brushes over Richie’s lips. “Yeah, I promise. It’s not like the group would be complete without Eddie Spaghetti.”

“Don’t call him that when you talk to him-”

“No, I think I should.”

“It’s only going to make him more mad!”

“No, I think he’ll love it. He’ll forget all his woes.”

Stan snorts out a laugh. “His woes?”

Richie can’t help but grin at the sound of Stan’s laugh. After a week of hearing him mope, it is nice to see he still has a bit of happiness in him. “Yeah, his woes,” he teases. Then, softer, “I’ll see if I can get him to come over here tomorrow.”

Stan nods. “I think everyone would like that.”

“Everyone would also like to see you,” Richie says, trying to hide the hopefulness in his voice. “You’ve been hiding here from everyone for at least an hour.”

“I like to be alone with my thoughts,” Stan murmurs. He had also been sitting right here, with his back to the kitchen island, when him and Bill had almost kissed. It sounds silly, but a part of him feels safer here. Like a part of Bill is still lingering in the air.

He half expects Richie to fight him. To beg him to come out from the kitchen and join them in Beverly’s bedroom. In all honesty, Stan doesn’t know if he would be able to say no to Richie right now. But all Richie does is hug him tighter. “You can take as long as you want, Stan the man. No one’s rushing you.” Stan answers by tucking himself closer to Richie. Like he’s hoping to melt into his best friend’s side and disappear from the world altogether. “But I do have a question.”

“Hm?”

Richie tugs gently on the sweatshirt. “Is this mine?”

Stan shakes his head. “It’s mine now.” He pulls away from Richie to fix him with a curious look. “I thought it was Eddie’s. He let Bill borrow it.”

“Uh-huh,” Richie says, struggling to hold back his laughter. “Where do you think Eddie got a sweatshirt that Bill could fit into?”

Stan groans, his head dropping back to  _ thunk _ against the kitchen island. “So we’re just passing it around the friend group?”

“Yeah, I think it should be Mike’s turn next.”

“I’ll be sure to find a reason to pass it on to him,” Stan says with a gentle quirk of his lips.

“Speaking of Mike, I think he was going to turn on  _ Denbrough Show _ ,” Richie says. “So we could check on Bill. Do you want us to wait for you?”

“No, that’s alright,” Stan says. “You go ahead. I don’t - I don’t really want to watch it right now anyway.”

“Right,” Richie murmurs. “Well, feel free to come out anytime you want to, alright?”

Stan nods. “I will.”

He watches Richie as he disappears from the room, nearly tripping over his own two feet as he gets up, and finds he feels considerably less miserable than when he sat down.

-

It’s nearly midnight by the time Richie manages to work up the nerve to get in the car and drive to Eddie’s place. And it’s five after midnight by the time he manages to work up the nerve to actually get out of the car.

The light in Eddie’s bedroom is on. Richie knows he has to find the courage to head up there before he turns it off and goes to sleep, but he feels frozen in place. What if Eddie really doesn’t want to talk to him? The thought makes his skin prickle uncomfortably. He can’t imagine a universe where Eddie isn’t one of his best friends, at the very least. At this point he can’t bring himself to blame Eddie if he doesn’t want to be more than that anymore. Richie’s a handful on his own, even without all the secrecy and sneaking around. And even though the thought hurts Richie’s heart, he thinks he would be able to live through it. As long as Eddie didn’t shut him out like this anymore.

He takes a deep breath and starts towards the wall, grabbing a hold of his usual foothold.

Eddie’s curled up on his bed, scrolling mindlessly through his phone as the television plays quietly in the background. He hasn’t spotted Richie yet, and for a split second Richie considers the possibility of turning back. He still has time. He doesn’t have to go through with this.

He raises his knuckles to the glass anyway.

The noise makes Eddie jump, nearly dropping his phone in the process. But after he’s gotten over his shock, his eyes narrow in on Richie with an almost furious intensity. For a moment Richie thinks he isn’t going to let him in. That he’s just gonna roll over and wait until Richie’s forced to leave.

But then Eddie’s slipping out of bed and padding over to the window, though he looks no less unhappy. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I came to check on you,” Richie says. “Since you wouldn’t answer anyone’s calls. Can I come in?”

“I guess,” Eddie grumbles.

Richie does his best to slide through the window gracefully, but he hits the floor wrong and Eddie has to grab his arm and yank him back up to avoid him crashing to the ground and waking his mother.

“Jesus,” Eddie mumbles. “You’re a disaster, you know that?”

But the insult doesn’t land like it’s supposed to. Because now that Richie’s standing close enough, he can recognize the over-large T-Shirt Eddie has on as one of his own. “Yeah, I know.”

“Why are you here anyway?” Eddie crosses his arms over his chest, like he’s trying to protect himself.

“Well apparently it’s the only way I can talk to you,” Richie teases. “Not like you’re answering any of my texts.” Eddie goes quiet. His eyes drift slowly past Richie, and as Richie follows his gaze he finds himself watching the television across the room. Bill’s onscreen, though by now he’s long asleep. Hopefully off in some far off dreamland where he can forget about his worries for a few hours. Richie turns back towards Eddie with a sigh. “It’s not your fault, you know.”

“It is my fault,” Eddie mumbles without taking his eyes off the screen. “If I hadn’t told Stan and Bill to come to Robert’s-”

“We would have gotten caught some other way,” Richie cuts in. “You can’t beat yourself up like this.”

“Sure I can,” Eddie huffs. “I’m doing it right now.”

Richie rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean. C’mon, Eds, no one else is mad at you.”

Eddie’s shoulders slump at that. It stings Richie to see, as if Eddie would prefer them to be angry. “Then I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with you guys.”

“Nothing’s wrong with us,” Richie frowns. “You’re our friend, Eddie. I don’t know why you can’t see that.”

In the dim lighting, Richie can see the sparkling tears Eddie’s trying to hold back. “Friends don’t sell each other out to power hungry maniacs.”

“You made a mistake-”

“I was only looking out for myself-”

“So is everyone else-”

“Will you stop that!” Eddie snaps. “Stop trying to find ways to make what I did okay. It wasn’t okay. And I don’t - I don’t want to pretend like it was.”

Richie’s quiet for a moment. If Eddie had the courage to meet his eyes, he would have seen the contemplative look on his face. But he doesn’t have that courage, and a part of him fears he may never have that courage again.

“It wasn’t okay,” Richie says slowly, like he’s picking the words out from between shards of shattered glass. “And it sucks. But I forgive you.”

Eddie sniffles softly. But Richie knows it’s not a sound he was meant to hear, so Richie digs his nails into his palms and refrains from pulling Eddie into the biggest bear hug he can muster.

“Are you sure the others aren’t mad?” he asks, voice barely audible.

“They’re not mad,” Richie murmurs. “I talked to them earlier today. Not even Stan’s mad at you.”

Eddie nods, though he looks as if he doesn’t quite believe it. “You want me to see them tomorrow, don’t you?”

“I would like that, yeah.” A gentle smile tugs at Richie’s lips. “But you don’t have to. Not if you don’t want to.”

“I’ll go,” Eddie says. He tears his gaze away from the television, forcing himself to lock eyes with Richie. His breath catches in his throat, and not for the first time he wonders if he’s happy or terrified. When it comes to love, he’s not sure if there’s a difference. “Will you stay the night? Like you used to?” The words are out before Eddie’s really had a chance to think about them, but he finds he doesn’t regret them. He can’t deny that he’s missed Richie.

The smile on Richie’s face breaks out into a full blown grin. “Of course I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment, I love hearing everyone's thoughts!


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When they finally make it to Beverly’s house, only a little bit late, Eddie heads straight for Stan and plants himself directly in front of him. “I’m sorry.”
> 
> “It’s okay, Eddie.” Stan smiles wanley. “It’s not your fault.”
> 
> Eddie bites back the urge to argue with him. “We’ll get him back. You don’t have to worry about that.”

When Eddie wakes up the next morning, there’s an arm slung around his waist. It’s not unusual by any means for Richie to stay overnight, but it’s been so long that it’s almost strange to have him there. But not unwelcome. Eddie’s always liked when Richie’s stayed over. He likes how much warmer the bed gets, he likes the way Richie’s weight makes the mattress dip, and he especially likes how cuddly Richie can get in his sleep.

Eddie wiggles around until he’s turned over, nearly nose to nose with Richie now. He smiles softly as Richie’s eyes flutter behind his eyelids. “Richie. Rich, wake up.”

Richie groans. “Five more minutes.”

“No!” Eddie huffs. “You say that every morning. And before I know it, thirty minutes have gone by!”

“Mhm,” Richie mumbles. “We’ll get up in thirty minutes.”

He sleepily tugs Eddie closer and, honestly, who is Eddie to argue with that logic?

Normally Eddie isn’t one for cuddling. Bill and himself had slept on opposite ends of the bed. The one time Bill’s foot had accidentally brushed his in the middle of the night, Eddie had nearly toppled off the bed in fright.

But he likes cuddling with Richie. There’s something comforting about it, like simply being in Richie’s arms will keep him safe. So he buries his face in the crook of Richie’s neck and tries to let himself relax.

Thirty minutes later. “Richie. It’s time to get up.”

“ _ No _ ,” Richie whines. “You promised thirty minutes.”

“It’s been  _ thirty-one _ minutes,” Eddie scoffs. “C’mon, get up.”

Richie huffs as he reaches out blindly for his glasses, fingers scrabbling over the bedside table. By the time he’s got them on his face, Eddie’s already half dressed. His jeans are on but unbuttoned, his belt hanging loosely out of only half the loops, and his eyebrows are pinched as he studies the various sweatshirts in his closet.

Richie quietly slips out of bed, still clad in only his boxers. He wraps his arms gently around Eddie’s bare waist, pulling him closer until his chest is flush with his back.

Richie leans down to kiss his jaw. “Morning.”

“Morning,” Eddie murmurs, still half distracted by the overwhelming task of picking a single shirt.

“We’re just going to see the Losers,” Richie says with a quiet chuckle. “You don’t have to dress fancy or anything. You probably could just wear your sweats.” His hand sneaks under the waistband of Eddie’s jeans. “It’s not like we’re going out.”

Eddie bats Richie’s hand away. “Fuck off, I’m not wearing sweats. I need - I need to look good. I can’t be dressed like a slob when I go beg for our friends’ forgiveness.”

“You don’t have to beg for their forgiveness, Eds,” Richie says softy. “I told you, they’re not angry. They miss you.”

“Right,” Eddie says stiffly. “Well, I’m still not wearing my sweats.”

“Alright, alright. No sweats.” Richie takes a step back, looping Eddie’s belt through the rest of the belt loops before zipping up the jeans and spinning Eddie around by his hips. “But I mean it, you don’t have to be nervous. They’re worried about you.”

Eddie frowns. “You need to get dressed, Rich.”

“Can we just talk about this first?”

“What is there to talk about?

“I - I don’t know,” Richie splutters.

A heavy sigh escapes Eddie’s lips, and for a moment his features soften. “I’m not gonna back out, Rich. I want to see them. I’m just - I’m nervous. Can you not make me feel like shit because of it?” Despite the harsh words, there’s no bite in Eddie’s tone. Still, it makes Richie’s heart sink all the way to the bottom of his stomach.

“Sorry,” Richie mutters. Eddie shrugs. “Bill and I broke up, ya know.” His eyes dart down to Eddie’s lips, lingering for only a moment too long. “For what it’s worth.”  
Eddie swallows thickly. “I figured. Bill seemed pretty chummy with Stan. And he - um - he said you never really felt like a real boyfriend. Or - I mean - he implied that.”

“I think he knew I was always holding back a little,” Richie says. “I couldn’t ever fully hand myself over to him.”

“Yeah, he seemed pretty flippant about it when he found out I liked you.” Eddie laughs a little, but it comes out forced and stilted. It’s not like his feelings for Richie are any secret - especially not to Richie - but there’s still a sort of terror that lingers inside him at the thought of admitting those feelings.

But it seems Richie doesn’t experience that same terror. Not according to the grin that flickers across his lips. “Can I kiss you?”

“You know you can.” Eddie feels some of that fear wash away, replaced with that weak in the knees feeling Richie always manages to give him.

Richie gently cups Eddie’s face between his hands. His thumb brushes feather lightly over Eddie’s lower lip, and before he kisses him he murmurs, “I was scared I had ruined everything between us.”

“You’re stupid,” Eddie whispers. “You’re gonna have to work harder than that to get rid of me.”

Before Richie can argue, Eddie pushes up so he’s balancing on his tip-toes and presses his lips against Richie’s. He can feel Richie’s hands relax around his jaw. One of them slips around the back of his head, fingers curling in his hair, as the other lingers just beneath Eddie’s cheek.

Eddie remembers the last time he had kissed Richie clear as day. Before his mother had found out. Before Richie has asked him to wait, because he couldn’t bear to cheat on Bill despite their relationship not really being real in the first place. Because Richie was good like that. And before Eddie had brought the entire world crashing down on their heads.

Things had seemed easier back then.

But Eddie wouldn’t trade this moment for the world.

Richie’s gentle when he pulls away, as if terrified one wrong move will shatter them all over again. But then he sees Eddie’s face, eyes bright and sparkling, and he’s overcome by a grin wide enough to split his face in half.

“You should wear the blue sweatshirt,” he says suddenly. “It’s cute on you.”

Eddie can’t help but laugh at that, a delighted sound that punches out of his stomach and rips its way past his lips before he can protest.

“Yeah, alright,” he says, “I’ll wear the blue one,” and leans up to kiss Richie one more time.

-

When they finally make it to Beverly’s house, only a little bit late, Eddie heads straight for Stan and plants himself directly in front of him. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Eddie.” Stan smiles wanley. “It’s not your fault.”

Eddie bites back the urge to argue with him. “We’ll get him back. You don’t have to worry about that.”

“I hope so,” Stan says. “I’m - um - I’m sorry too. That I was so cold to you when I drove you home from Robert’s.”

“It’s alright,” Eddie says gently. “I can’t blame you.”  _ I deserved it. _

Stan shakes his head. “No, it was stupid. Robert wanted to drive a wedge between us. I don’t want to be the one who lets him succeed.”

Eddie feels the ghost of a smile tugging on his lips. “I don’t wanna be that person either.” He reaches out to clasp one of Stan’s hands between both of his, nodding his head for him to follow him to the kitchen. “I brought a peace offering.”

Stan quirks an eyebrow. “A peace offering? Eddie, you didn’t have to do that.”

“I bought everyone In-N-Out,” Eddie continues on as if he hadn’t heard Stan. “Except for Mike because, ya know, he can’t have burgers. But I got him a coke and some fries.”

Stan lets out a bubbling laugh. “You remember everyone’s In-N-Out orders?”

“Between Richie and I we could figure it out. C’mon, we have to hurry before all the fries are gone because Richie and Bev were literally shoveling them in their mouths by the handful. I got you a vanilla shake too. That’s the one you like, right?”

“Yeah, Eddie,” Stan says, amused. “That’s the one.”

“Okay, good. Because Richie said it was strawberry but I think he was just fucking with me.”  
Stan wrinkles his nose. “Who likes strawberry milkshakes?”

Eddie stops, a look of betrayal crossing his features. “ _ I _ like strawberry milkshakes.”

Stan can’t stop the burst of laughter that escapes him, roaring past his lips and shaking his shoulders. Eddie looks so offended, laughing is the only thing Stan can think to do. “I’m sorry, Eds.”

“Oh, sure, sure,” Eddie drawls, but Stan can see the beginnings of a smile on his face. “Laugh at my pain. You know, I thought we were friends, Uris.”

Stan just dissolves into another fit of giggles. He tugs Eddie closer by their interlocked hands, and tosses his free arm around him. A moment later his other arm joins it, and he can feel Eddie’s arms sliding around his waist.

“Thank you,” he says through a grin.

“Yeah, sure. It’s not like In-N-Out’s that expensive-”

“I mean for making me laugh,” Stan says. “These last few days have been shitty.”

Eddie goes quiet. Stan can feel his grip tighten ever so slightly around his waist. Then, with a shuddering laugh, “They’ve been super shitty.”

Something about that makes the remnants of Stan’s laughing fit start up again, and before he knows it the two of them are cackling hard enough for Beverly’s next door neighbor to start pounding against the wall in retaliation. But Stan can’t find it in himself to care much. He thinks this is the hardest he’s laughed in three days.

-

As nice as it is to laugh for a little bit, it doesn’t fix the hurt that reverberates through Stanley’s bones. And he expects that everyone else is much of the same, based on the fact that their smiles rarely seem to reach their eyes. Stan almost feels guilty. He can’t stop running through that night in his head, trying to find a moment he could have gained the upper hand.

But he always ends up back at the same place.

“We’re going to have to find someone on the inside who can let us in,” Mike is saying, tapping the straw of his half full coke thoughtfully against his lips. “No way are our passes going to work anymore.”

“I burned my lanyard as soon as I left,” Beverly scoffs.

“Mine’s still hanging on my door,” Ben admits bashfully. “It seemed wrong to get rid of it.”

“I wasn’t close with anyone else in the cast or crew,” Stan says. “Not close enough that I would trust them not to tell Robert.”

“What about our replacements?” Richie asks.

Stan’s lips draw together in a sort of disgusted sneer. “What about them?”

“They’re new,” Richie shrugs. “They haven’t been manipulated by Robert yet. Maybe we can convince one of them to help us.”

“I doubt it,” Ben frowns. “After the stunt we pulled, I doubt Robert’s going to pick just anyone to replace us. He’s gonna hire people he thinks he can trust.”

Richie slumps down in his seat. “Right.”

“It’s a good suggestion, Rich,” Mike says amicably. “We’ll keep it in our back pocket.”

“Can you ask your mom?” Bev asks, peering curiously at Eddie across the island.

“I tried,” Eddie says. “She won’t tell me anything. She won’t even let me look at the scripts she’s writing.”

Bev groans. “ _ Fuck _ .”

Stan drums his fingers quietly over the side of the In-N-Out milkshake. He can still taste the sugar sweet of the ice cream on his tongue. But it tastes bitter amongst this conversation. As if someone had mixed up the salt and sugar.

“Maybe - Maybe we don’t try to get him out right away,” Stan says. Everyone turns to look at him, and the air suddenly feels very, very still. “He knows the truth already. And he knows he can leave when he turns eighteen. Maybe we should be spending our time trying to get the world on his side.”

“Are you okay with that?” Mike asks gently. “That’s still two months away.”

Stan offers him a little half shrug. “I dunno.”

“I think Stan’s right,” Eddie pipes up. “Even if we do manage to get Bill off set, we’ll be right back where we were a week ago. If we can get him out when he turns eighteen, we’ll have more to stand on.”

There’s a beat of silence in which Stan can see his friends mulling the idea over. “I know it’s not the most favorable option,” he says. “But it’s useless to try and climb the same old hill if we know we’re just going to fall off the other side.”

Ben sighs heavily. “He’s right.”

“So then what do we do?” Bev asks.

Stanley waits for his friends to say something. But, upon further inspection, he finds they’re all staring at him. Waiting for him to say something.

It sends a jolt of electricity through him. He had never been the one to call the shots before, always choosing to sit in the back and follow his friends’ leads. Hell, the entire reason he ended up on  _ The Denbrough Show _ in the first place was because he was following Richie.

It’s terrifying, the thought of being entirely in control. If something goes wrong, there’s no one to blame but himself.

But it’s sort of exciting too.

“I think we should focus on Georgie,” he says firmly. “On getting him away from Robert.”

“ _ Christ _ ,” Richie says. “That poor kid.”

“How do you plan to do that?” Mike asks, not unkindly. “We already know Robert’s never willingly going to let him go.”

“I’m not sure yet,” Stan admits.

“We’ll think of something,” Eddie says. “I’ll start by trying to rekindle my relationship with my mom. It might take awhile, though.”

“Awe, poor Eds,” Richie teases. “You’re going to have to watch so many soap operas.”

“Fuck off,” Eddie snips, but there’s no venom behind his voice.

“I think the rest of us should follow Bev’s lead,” Stan says. “Try to take on a more activist-like role on social media. If there’s any way we can bring the things Robert has done to us to the public-”

“I can get us some interviews,” Bev says. “Every talk show host and gossip magazine is going to be practically salivating at the idea that they might be the one to uncover something. They’re already buzzing about your replacements.”

“Good.” Stan gives her a little nod. “If you can get one for each of us, that’ll be best.”

Beverly waves him off with a flick of her wrist. “I’ve got it covered.”

“Robert’s going to hit us back twice as hard,” Ben says warily. “You know that, don’t you? As soon as we make all this shit public, our careers are over.”

Stan takes a deep breath. “I know.”

-

It’s been a day since the fight at the graveyard, and Bill still hasn’t said a word to his mother. He doesn’t particularly feel bad about it. It’s not like she’s making any effort to speak to him either. But it is just a smidge disheartening.

Bill had sort of hoped that her conscious would come around once he called her out. He had almost been looking forward to getting to know who his mother really was, not just the caricature she put on for the cameras.

But that day never came. Bill’s not surprised.

He rolls onto his side, eyes lingering on the photograph on the bedside table. Fake Stan stares back at him. Bill doesn’t even know who he is yet, but he despises him. He knows that’s a cruel judgement, but he can’t help it.

“ _ Bill! _ ” Someone’s knuckles rap against his door. “Can I come in?” There’s a pause. Then, when Bill doesn’t answer, the door opens. “Hey, Big Bill!”

Bill groans, rolling over to hide his face in the pillow. Fake Richie. Somehow Bill thinks he’ll be even more obnoxious than Real Richie.

He feels the bed dip next to him. “I came to check on you. I heard you had a pretty nasty run-in with your walls. Your mom said you destroyed your hands pretty good.” There’s a pause. “It looks like a tornado ran through here.”

It’s chilling to hear him talk. He has Richie’s speech patterns down to every little inflection.

“Ffff-Fuh-Fuh-Fuck oh-off,” Bill says bitterly.

“Awe, c’mon, baby,” Fake Richie says, drawing out the Y. He drapes himself over Bill, his breath tickling the side of his face. “Don’t be like that -  _ Ow! _ Jesus.” He jerks back, hands clasped over his ribs, right where Bill’s elbow had been a second ago. “What the fuck dude?”

“Sorry,” Bill says dryly. For a second he thought he could hear something genuine in this guy’s voice. As if after Bill elbowed him, he had forgotten he was supposed to be Richie. But it’s gone as soon as it’s there. Still, the pain in that very real voice makes guilt surface in Bill’s stomach. He finally rolls back over and, with a little more sympathy than before, “Ss-Sorry.”

Fake Richie is even more chilling to look at. He looks like Richie but just a little...wrong. That’s the only way Bill can think to put it. He’s sure if he didn’t know any better, Fake Richie could have fooled him no problem.

“It’s alright,” Fake Richie says, still wincing a little. “What the fuck was that for, anyway?”

Bill splutters. “I - I dd-didn’t ww-wuh-want to be tt-touched.”

“Well you could have just said that,” Fake Richie grumbles. Then, with just as much enthusiasm as before, “Jesus, you really did destroy your hands!” Fake Richie, as if their previous conversation hadn’t happened at all, grabs for one of Bill’s bandaged hands. Bill bites back a wince of his own as a surge of pain runs up his arm. “What happened anyway?”

“I was tt-tr-trying to find the cc-cam-camera,” Bill says blandly.

Fake Richie stops. Then he lets out a bark of laughter, but it’s shaky and frightened. Just as his voice is when he says, “I don’t know what the hell you’re going on about. But it’s good to see you still have your sense of humor.”

Bill carefully removes his hand from Fake Richie’s prying fingers. “Uh-huh.”

“Hey, so, the Losers and I were thinking about heading down to the arcade,” Fake Richie says. “I told them I would pick you up. Sooo...You wanna come? I think it might be good for you.”

And Bill doesn’t want to. Not really. But he wants to spend time cooped up inside his room even less. “Alright.”

If Fake Richie notices the hesitation in his voice - and Bill’s sure he does - he doesn’t say anything. Instead he leaps to his feet, grabbing for Bill’s forearm and practically yanking him out of bed.

“Jj-Jesus,” Bill hisses. “I know hh-how to get out of bed by mm-myself.”

“C’mon, we have to hurry,” Fake Richie insists. “Mike was threatening to beat my top score on Destroyer, and you know how I feel about that.”

“I just nn-need to get dressed,” Bill says. “I’ll mm-muh-meet you out ff-fr-front.”

“Alright, well, don’t take too long!”

Bill sighs heavily as the door slams shut. Two more months. Two more months until he can leave for good. Two more months until he can see the Real Losers. Until he can see Real Stan.

He can do two more months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all know what's crazy? I started this fic in 2019 and now it's 2021. And it's not even at 20 chapters yet. But it is what it is ig. Anyway sorry it's been like two months. I was going through it. And I'm not gonna promise that the next chapter will be soon because I honestly have no idea. But I am starting to get better mentally, and I have been writing a lot more recently. So who is to say what the future holds. Hopefully more chapters.
> 
> If you want to read more of my works please check them out! And please feel free to read my new fic: I'll Tell You How We're Wrong Enough To Be Forgiven. First two chapters are out now, and they're twice as long soooo...That's p cool.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! And if you've stuck with me since the beginning...damn that's pretty cool and I literally owe you the world.
> 
> Please leave a comment, I love to hear what you guys have to say!

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr:
> 
> Fanfic/IT: @s-oulpunk  
Main: im-a-rocketman


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